You Are Not My Majesty

“Stop growing up, it’s a trap.”

I wrote this letter to give myself a chance to say how much I miss you, or maybe it was not you but someone else inside that body eight years ago. Even though you talked about figures, I could not take you seriously like how I spoke to my colleagues. I still wanted to treat you the way I treated you several years back. Remember how we talked about the men who kill each other inside a box? Or maybe what kind of entertainment to see next? Those were such good times; but I guess like everything else, you and I have changed.

Minutes before we met, I was reading “The Little Prince” by Antoine de Saint-Exupery. I just finished chapter six and so far, I like it. It speaks about how a person forgets about being a child when he or she is already an adult. I can relate to the part where the narrator said that adults speak with numbers. One example that he gave was one can describe a house by its value in the market.

I really do like the book. It made me realize how I had lived my life measuring happiness by how much gold I hold or how many things I own. None of those could make me happy eternally, I guess.

When you asked me if I had gold, I was somehow offended by it. You then asked me if I had something to give the former owners of my land, and I said none since they were not my obligation anymore. You then told me I was wrong and that I was immature. I knew you were right, but you said it like you were once in my shoes. No my dear, you haven’t. You toured around the globe and had gold to place you in a well-known academy; you never experienced being threatened by a grandeur queen. Maybe you did, but you did not have the same experience as mine. That was where you were wrong. You were never in my place.

Perhaps, neither telling me I was just mad nor speaking the worry of the former owners of my land was helpful.

I told you I was happy to be the mistress of less than a hundred subjects even though I only get a hundred fifty franks for three months, but you belittled my passion. You were proud to spend four hundred franks for only two weeks, though I still do not get it why you were bragging about it. Was it because you are already queen that you thought you could command me to perform things I do not like to do?

At the moment when you were asking me if I had a plan or if I even planned to have a plan, I just wanted to go back home straight to the arms of my lord. I wanted to stop you from telling me what to do; I wanted to stitch your lips to refrain you from speaking in numbers; I wished that you would tell me you had other things to attend to as queen.

Was it then I wished not to see you? Maybe, quite. I hope I could draw you a box, and inside a box is a sheep that you like so you may return to being my old friend just like eight years ago.

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