The world plods on, continuing it's arduous journey, while I ponder the past. A letter, addressed to my Mother, may just be the most difficult endeavour. How am I to show her, with words, mere words, what childhood in her hands, growing up in her shadow has been like? How am I to describe this relationship? This tenuous, tiring - at times devastating, but persistent ... connection that we share?

There are words which should have been said years ago. Words that, now removed from the presence of circumstance or persons, bear meaning so insignificant. Words that though of negligible importance, weigh on my mind all the same.

How do I tell her, that I know now, what it feels like, in her shoes? How do I tell her, I know now, and still don't approve? How do I say everything I have in my heart, and still protect the thread that holds us?

How do I tell her, so that she will understand, that Love is something I never felt, coming from her? Love, the way I love Luka, the way I will continue to love Luka, even though it hurts, and even though it makes me cry. How do I tell her that mothers, that parents, should never let their children cry? That parents should never make their children cry? That even though it's impossible to bear the burden of a family falling apart, parents should never give their children reason to cry?

Luka didn't cry. Luka never cried. But Luka was strong; stronger than me.

How do I make her see, that children shouldn't cry? That crying should be left till we're all older. Till the world proves lacking, till we find love missing, till joy becomes fleeting? Certainly not when we're in a Peter-Pan reality, enchanted by the colours of (not the rainbow) the crayons, reassured that things will always stay the same, that nothing will ever change, that nothing will ever hurt us.

Then again, I never had the delusions of Peter Pan, never liked crayons, and always knew what hurt felt like.

Hurt. It's not physical, it's intangible. It is not measured with the depth of a gash, the amount of blood lost, the volume of a child's cry. It's inside. It's underneath all the layers of humanity, something we spend our lives hiding. It's what eats us up, eventually. It's what remains, after the wounds have healed, after the body has erased all evidence of injury, but it brings more pain than the wounds ever did.

I would take all the panadol the doctor prescribed, if it could dull this hurt inside, just one shade, except it wouldn't. There's the incessant need to keep my wounds open, keep the blood flowing, keep all the physical torture, to make it real, to match the hurt inside, to feel even slightly sane.

Sometimes, when I indulge myself with delusions, I think everything happened for a reason. That had I been smarter, colder, less idealistic, I wouldn't be what I am today. I blame myself for tearing our family apart. I blame myself for not being good enough. I imagine this is all just punishment, and that it will pass. These delusions, they're appearing more readily, and they take longer to chase away.

How am I to make her see my reasons? Why I chose to keep silent, why I chose to leave, then come back, only to leave again? How am I to convince her that maybe it's best if we went our separate ways, and left the hurt behind? How can I ever show her how it's hurting inside?

How do I tell her I always loved her, with the hope that she will one day, love me? And how do I tell her, I don't hope anymore?