A Ghost Writer and The idea of love for the immatures #1

This actually is meant to be a series. At least the plan is to make it one.
Given the permission to post parts of letters I wrote for my friends, I am putting up some bits from my ghost writing assignments.


Picture art from http://stephenormsby.files.wordpress.com/2012/11/ghostwriter.jpg

This one is from a hopeless spoilt brat that I have known since years. ( Yes I respect you )

‘ A distress call ‘

Habit, obsession and addiction.
You are any one of the above and sometimes all of them. For ending my free will I will blame you, that I fell into your toxic love. I am left begging for more.
Every morning I realise it when I see the empty liquor bottles lying around and also in the wholesome scene of chaos that once was a bed where you slept like a baby.
Wrapped in the linen that once we shoplifted in madness of the weekend games you dared to take up. Nothing but smoke flies around when I open the windows to the overhead sun. Flowers are gone from the gardens that you made me water in the eventful evenings. So has the scent from the pillows which was something that helped me sleep when you were out of the town. Something now I can’t even remember.
Each night it’s a chase. Chasing the idea of peace that I felt in your lap. Now that you are gone. I will find solace at the end of bottle that I hold every night and maybe cage the tears and save them because stones don’t cry.
Yes ! I will turn into that or is it better to kill it off ? because it’s no more a place that seems worth, with my empty heart where emotions just keep flushing out all by themselves.
I miss the warmth and the Heat between us ! Things which ones just happened on better nights. These were the things which really had content, others now are mere casualty exercises

This was a piece from a long letter that once was written with great belief. To my knowledge the aim was a consolation for hope. For him and for her.


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