Letter (3)

10.09.2015

Karlsruhe

Dear Mother, 

  This is the last time I write to you from this cosy bed and this big room in the forest-town, I move cities this week, and so the next letter will be from there, and hopefully by then, "there" wouldn't be as strange of a place anymore. I'm not doing so good mum, I really wish you were here. I let my adult life drown me, I didn't stop for a second, not even to enjoy a summer night or a sunset swim. I became much more responsible and way stronger than I used to be. But that strength cost me human relations. As odd as it might sound, I often catch myself craving human warmth. Not love or care or emotions, just ... warmth. And I have friends, I do. I'm not alone and yet, solitude never seems to rest the gun it's holding to my head. 

  Sis says that strength is the gift of the women in our bloodline, that we come from a long line of fighter Amazigh ladies who always managed to survive by sheer strength of will and mind. I wonder sometimes if this gift is a blessing or a curse however. Strong women, although highly regarded and respected, are feared and no one dares approach them. They are the ones who survive, but most of the time, they survive alone, don't they ? I don't know if they end up happy. Were you happy, mum ? I really hope you were, because that give me hope, that someday I'll be as strong and as happy as you were, that someday I'll get over myself and all these adolescent thoughts and find joy in my own solitude. 

I hope you're resting in peace. You're always on my mind and I miss you lots.

Forever yours, 

W.