Photo by Miss Lacitos
You're reading this, my half arsed attempt at a love letter, on my wife's blog. I bought 'ankita.ink' as a gift for her in 2015 for her birthday after I had fallen in love with her all over again through the love letters she used to write to me. I thought it was cute at the time - to force her to share her writing to the whole wide world. And she did share. She started with short stories at first. Then she started sharing little excerpts from her life. And it was glorious.
The joy that it brings me with every word is immeasurable
- when she wrote about how we named this blog
- when she wrote a beautiful short story about painful family bonds
- when she wrote about how she wanted to slap me for using ~perfect~ logic
- when she convinced me to write down my nightmare and then proceeded to publish a better version of it
- when she wrote about all the short jokes I used to make
- when she wrote about a dumb cringey rhyme about boats
- when she wrote about Kasha for the first time
- when she wrote about the time I accidentally used her tooth brush for more than a month
- when I wrote about how she once caught me 'cheating' on her
- when I wrote about the time we accidentally ended up at an ISIS training camp
This isn't a complete list of my favorites. It's not even ordered. It's just the random ones I found last night when she almost caught me writing this post. I'm sure she had forgotten these memories. There are countless more amazing memories in here waiting to be rediscovered.
I realize that the blog is now something much more than what I initially imagined it to be. It is a diary of our life together. She has captured the essence of our life together using her carefully crafted words. It shows me what I am and what I could be. It makes me yearn to be better. And I know that one fine day as I'm about to croak, I'd read all of this again and relive the best parts of my life through her unfairly kind eyes.
But the reason this post exists is because life hasn't been without its downturns. At some point she fell to depression. It took her a while but she managed to pick herself back up again all on her own. All that while she had forced herself to write. The rhythm and the routine of the blog had helped her weather the storms. But the damage was done. She had now equated the crippling sadness to writing. The joy that it had brought was forgotten. All that was left were the shadows of pain. She stopped writing.
And that's why I'm writing this second rate love letter.
In hopes that it'll remind her of what once was.
In hopes that every cringey memory like when she tried to kill me with a racket ball won't ever be forgotten.
In hopes that my love will write again.