Dear Page of Swords

Dear Page of Swords,

You are young now. Perhaps you’re not wise enough to know better. But one day you’ll learn. One day, you’ll understand. But that day is not today. You still have a long long way to go.

That Sword you hold in your hand is a weapon. It can harm. It can hurt. Sometimes the wounds you inflict won’t be physical. But your sharp words can scratch a soul. Your careless words can make a humble heart burn. 

Not your heart, of course. For it is so closely guarded. You may not see or feel the tears of others, but the rest of us can feel the emotions you won’t allow yourself to. 


I was a young Page of Cups when we met several years ago. You were enamoured by my shiny words. Unlike you, my element is water, not air. You understood my words, but not what they meant. My words come from my heart, from the deep recesses of my soul.

But your words are different. They come from the mind, from the intellect and from that ivory tower where no one else can go. 

And so I talked, and you listened. You took my words and passed them on as your own. I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see that I was just another accolade. A trophy on your arm to make you look and feel better. 

My heart meant nothing to you. You spilled the contents of my cup and left me out in the cold. 


You kicked me when I was down. And if that wasn’t enough, you knifed me where it really hurt. And you did it over and over and over again. Once was never enough. And if I cried, you’d plunge that blade even deeper. Till I was numb, numb to it all. 

Every time you let me down, you always had a way. A way of saying the right words without meaning them.

But I was young then. I was naive then. I didn’t know that they were people like you out there. People who just don’t care. People who’d leave you out for dead. 


It’s been years since we parted ways. Years since you cut me with your blade. Years since I learned to live my life with a closed heart. 

Yesterday, I remembered you. I remembered us. I tried to find the joy you said you felt in all the memories we made. But I couldn’t find them. All I could remember was that you left me all alone out in the cold. You were unreachable. Unknowable. And yet, you were always right next to me – unwilling to let go. 

The problem was me, you said. You had a way. Of cutting through me and my emotions, like they didn’t matter at all. It is only the likes of you – that can watch another silently suffer and feel nothing. 


Some of us feel compassion. Some of us even feel love. Even for the sorry likes of you. I thank God I am a foolish Page of Cups no more. I’m wiser now. I can see the likes of you coming. I now know better than to offer my cup to those who are unworthy.

I cut them off with their own blade. You didn’t like it, did you? When I took your swords and beat you at your own game. 

You taught me to fight a war where there are no winners. A war where even when you win you lose. 


It was a hard lesson to learn. Tell me, have you learnt yours? Have you found a heart? Have you found your soul? I saw a picture of you the other day. I can see it in your eyes. How you’ve gotten older and grown even colder. 

I haven’t forgotten you. How can I? I can still remember the cuts of your blade. I couldn’t forget them even if I wanted to. But I choose to forgive.

Not for you, but for me.

So that I may love once more. So that I may live once more.

Yours truly,

The Page of Cups 



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