I know this might not surprise you of all people that I have done it once again. I know history, none less than that history which I call my own, is littered with foolish men gallivanting after the women they purport to love. Gallivanting long, long after that love is charming to behold and much, much before such a love was ever shared in the heart of the other. Much, much before it was ever shared at all for that matter. I hope you don't find it to terribly odd or even, understandably enough, too terribly cruel that I am writing to you on matters such as these given that you were once one to which my affection was attached, but I honestly feel as if I have no one of merit to which I can turn to for help in this moment. So if you can forgo any resentments you may bare towards me concerning our past I very much would like to ask of you your opinion concerning my present predicament, a predicament I have come to know as Rachel. She is very much like you Mariam in both demeanor and personal wit and it is a similarity that I am sure will cause you to truly despise her as much as it will spurn great empathy for her. For is it not true that we to some extent or another are forced to deeply scorn those we most truly know? Are not the halls of our understanding equally riddled with the most vicious respite as they are with the most vivacious love when concerned with another's soul? O' how I could go on and on with such questions as you most surely know, but for the present moment I wish merely to request you read this letter and in return write one of your own. For it is my dearest hope Mariam that you will write me back soon and we can discuss this situation of mine in greater detail and just maybe determine a solution for it as well. Thomas, the pessimist that he is, has repeatedly told me not to waste my time writing you and especially not to waste even the smallest ounce of my hope that this letter will go anywhere other than the flame upon its arrival to your estate... But then again Thomas does not know you such as I and I know your curiosity and sense of excitement could never allow you to neglect an invitation such as this. For this letter Mariam is nothing less than a call to great adventure and chaos in matters of the heart, a call you cannot and will not likely dismiss. So write to me soon my dearest Mariam, write to me and let this new and waiting calamity begin again.
With Unrequited Care,
Something I've been milling over conceptually for a while. Maybe a short story or potential novella in the works. Maybe even a sequel of sorts to my prior work. All and all it definitely is in my eyes a more mature form of my writing stylistically speaking that captures the edgy existentialism of my first novel (As Skies Became Crimson) without the dependency on vulgarity (namely the excessive use of "fuck" in all its aesthetically pleasing forms and contexts :).
I have been alive for almost 34 years now and in those 33 years, soon to be 34, I have come to acquire two unassailable facts: the sky is a light shade of baby blue on my birthday every year and I am undoubtedly a bastard. Though I did not come to these facts by happenstance as I surely struggled to grasp them in their certainty, I most certainly have them now. I have them both and in possessing them am made nauseous. A nausea I seek to ease this coming summer celebration. For though I cannot snare from the sky the light that shades it so, I do hold another light quite timidly in the palm of my hand. In it's gentle breath I feel the warmth of freedom, my freedom, a freedom I soon wish to exercise if so able.