Spilled Ink (3)

As I’ve written in two previous posts about “spilled ink,” I’ll continue here. “Spilled ink” is a metaphor for the letters that fall from the pen, so what I’m writing here now is what I previously wrote in my notebook—since I jot down whatever crosses my mind from time to time. So I’ll finish what I started, and today I’ll write for you what appeared in my notebook. But as I mentioned earlier, everything I’ve written since I started this blog—until the ink runs out of my pen—is not just a collection of unrelated letters; rather, they are tied to feelings I may not be able to express in front of others, and I find peace only in those letters.

Let’s begin.

It is strange that anyone would call loneliness a strange thing, for I see it as a barrier that prevents betrayal, treachery, heartbreak, and pain. It is a safe haven from everything—even from the self and death. Truly, I see it as my only refuge, and I strive hard to attain it completely, like the soul taking possession of the body. But there is always something that interrupts this ritual, and because of that, I have not yet been able to fully attain this possession of solitude.

It is difficult for the mind to believe it has been stabbed by those closest to it. At this point, a great conflict begins—one that is difficult to express—between (the evidence and facts) and (the mind and the heart).

In other words, if I find evidence that the mind struggles to interpret as such, it tends to find an excuse for it. To avoid a psychological shock to the mind, it strives with all its might to deny the evidence and find many, many excuses, or it tends to forget this situation to avoid the shock. I chose not to believe it, as both my mind and heart agreed that there is a flaw in this evidence. I do not know if this incident is true or, as I suspect, merely just an incomplete picture—a scene where the evidence is unclear, and time has distorted the events, making it seem to others as if he was stabbed in the back. But I assure you it is a misunderstanding with no basis in reality, and sooner or later the truth will come to light, even if it takes hundreds of years.

I know in the depths of my heart that she is innocent,

and that time has twisted the events, and your love for the photo has led the viewer to see a betrayal, and your love for the evidence makes it seem conclusive—but I do not believe all this evidence, for one cannot bring oneself to believe that (……I do not want to say what happened).

The cunning imagination has come to me through the loopholes in these clues, but I did not mention them, and this is because I fear the walls might hear me

All I can do is try to forget this matter as usual, but the strange thing about this is that all my attempts have failed, even though I am certain of the accused’s innocence. Still, I will try to forget it time and again, and I will leave this matter to time to resolve

Even though I know that the first person who wrote the saying that “time heals all wounds” knew that what he wrote wasn’t true, but he wrote it only to ease his own pain and the pain of those around him

I hope you find in these words all the letters that have been lost to you