Letters To Min Yoongi

Part 1.

Wednesday, 10:46 Pm

Money.

An essential commodity, often mistaken as a synonym for happiness. In today's world, where every passing day is a rat race towards this commodity, our satisfaction quotient is directly proportional to the amount we carry in our cards and wallets.

Sure, It'd bring with It security but for some, it's a burden rather than an asset.

I'd been overworked for 2 weeks straight and despite the Employment act, that guaranteed me a decent wage, I was underpaid.

Work was more of a burden to me than something I was driven to do. This work brought bread on my dining table, but did it make me happy?

Let's just say it was a compulsion, a prison, where I'd been sentenced a lifetime worth of imprisonment.

Shoulders slouched, my corporate uniform drenched in sweat, hair disheveled, I made my way to the bus stop.

Just to my luck, it started drizzling, hinting I'd have to make a dash for the bus stop.

Jogging down the concrete, with my handbag placed over my head, as a shield, I let out a sigh of dismay.

I did say, life is a race.

My life was bland, tasteless, similar to hot ramen with no seasoning, sticky rice that was fed to the elderly and in short, purposeless.

I'd return home to an unfaithful drunk, who was abusive.

Providing for him and his alcohol cravings snatched most of my salary.

What was I getting instead?

Nights after nights of me, withering under him as he pounded into me aggressively, none of his actions that'd spell love.

Mentally preparing myself for what the night held for me, I sat on one of the benches under the shelter of the bus stop, sweeping off the droplets on the sleeves of my blazer.

Checking the bus timetable app on my phone, it notified that my bus would be arriving in 25 minutes due to the traffic.

Great, I thought.

Plugging in my earphones, I stood up, walking around, making my way to the bulletin board, that displayed the bus numbers and its routes, reading the chart while tapping my foot to the beat of a song, when my eyes went over to a pice of paper, that stuck out from the corner of the board.

It was a neatly folded letter, perhaps.

Looking around me, I noticed that I was absolutely alone.

Tugging at the letter, I unfolded it.

Black ink covered the paper, the words at the edge, smudged. I couldn't help but read it.

I bore an inquisitive mind, after all.

'To whoever owns a mind as curious as mine,

A wise man once said, 'Go to a coffee shop. Try avoiding a place where you frequently go to. Sit down and write down painfully honest words. Once you are done, tear the paper and throw it in a waste bin. By then, you have completed what you should have done.'

I'm not going to throw this away.

You may be at a point in time where you feel pathetic, useless and aimless.

When you just can't help but feel that time is passing you by, while you stand amidst the chaos, motionless and feeling defeated.

I come here, not to catch a bus but to watch cars pass by me, in a frenzy almost, desperate to reach a destination.