A Romantic Vision

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Dearest Miss,

"I humbly approach to be something and someone because I feel my authentic self or any men is not enough. Oh, they say, Miss, be yourself as if Man truly is something great not knowing that Man in its true self is a savage, an animal. How could I be myself?  Imitation is key to the art of living. I am on a quest to find the most subtle soul to imitate, till then I must be in unrest or wait until death approaches me politely"

Do you remember I said these words to you?

Do you look as beautiful today as you did the first day I saw you, in the mahogany scarf on your head, your lustrous raven curls, your lean eyes like the crescent moon, and those lips, oh Miss you have the most beautiful plump lips like a blooming tulip...oh you're so stunning, something to marvel, to save in sight, to remember on an odd afternoon, to think about at night?
Yes, I felt all that the very first moment I saw you, it was like an entirety.
Miss, I want to talk to you.
Can we talk?
I suppose you agree.
Did you nod or you took a deep sigh like you always do before listening?
I want to gather your sighs in my hand and bottle them up in a jar, I wonder if that's possible?

I miss you.

Oh yes, when will you return?
I have a favour to ask, can you convince my mother to retire herself in an old age home or asylum. She always talks me out of it.
Please be back soon.

You have bewitched me that I forgot all the things but I shall remember all of it and tell you now. Listen, Miss, this tale is true.
My father was not a writer, he was not a professor, he never worked a day in his life, he was a rich elitist from an industrious family who knew how to soil a good name.
He was an alcoholic, a charmer but in only words, he had numerous affairs, he had nothing to do with Maerifa. Yes, nothing to do with it.
Eloped with my mother, a modern sour feminist from Northern Ireland. She was an ardent columnist, the editor of a women's magazine.
All those books you see in my house belong to her, lost her mind in love and suppose her legs too. She says I am like my father, I deny. I wanted money, we had nothing, oh wait we have nothing.
No money, no food, no matter how hard I try I could not do a job well, I guess I am like my father.

Uncle could buy Maerifa, I thought if I persuade him to marry me to his daughter, the bond with come with good fortune.

You came into the next house, I had not seen anyone there before, you had an eye for detail, I was instantly drawn to you. I thought this lovely lady is half the mad, more beautiful than my uncle's daughter.
I wanted to marry you.
I love you Miss and Awan lives for and would perish for you.
Believe me, I truly loved you and your money had a little to do with it... It's hard to make confessions like these.
Then it felt fine most days.
My name is not Awan, my real name is Rouhaan.
Awan is a character my mother wrote for a children book. Who was brown, remarkably honest and extremely languid;
I adopted it exclusively for you.
Do you hate me yet?
Well, there's more.
I knew Timur loved you and that some unsaid mystery between your parents and him have strangled your marriage.
I heard your father choke and threaten him one day. I took advantage of that, I never wanted you to love him.
I know how he feels, my mother was molested by many men or may I say many of her lovers, does that make you pity her less?
My father committed suicide when I was eight. Small age, a big relief. He never treated us right, if we had money from her columns he would take it, drink in the bar would bring white girls home then there would be myriad of fights. I touched one of her girls, she asked me to, I should not recall this.
She hated him, he hates us. He told me I was not his son, now when I look back on my life I indeed am his son.
He committed suicide but immediately rejected it, he yelled from that cursed kitchen to call an ambulance. Deep cut wound on his neck, his hands coloured red, it almost looked like paint. I stood there watching him die. My mother wasn't at home.
She cried a lot.
Sometimes people cry when people they hate die.
It signifies the end of sorrow.