It is with such regret I write to you in these times of sadness. I’m not one to be drawn into the shadows but I’ve found myself cast right under the darkest wings of my thoughts.
Maybe my fondness for the diabolical has caught up with me.
Self righteousness amiss I feel like I’m bathing in the sins of my own and others and I dare shudder to think of the mess we have made of things.
I write to you because writing is all I have. Whether or not you recieve this correspondance is another matter of its own.
I yearn for you, dear friend. I wish nothing but the best in these circumstances but as of late I’m becoming aware of my reluctance to divulge in anything other than my sorrows.
My pain strips and tears at my eyes. I can feel the scratches and bearings of my efforts not to break down crumbling beneath my weakened foundations.
It is in this time and this time alone I will apologise for this sudden urge to write to you when the time is not ripe for either of us.
I have so many questions to ask.
But I will hold my curiosities and keep my anxieties at bay.
But friend, I will tell you this.
Things are not what they were.
I am a shell.
I do not dare go beyond that anymore.
Because dear friend, beyond there is more of what has already crept inside.
And I am scarred with battle.
I have betrayed myself.
And been betrayed.
Friend, if I may still call upon you as a person that dear to me, I wish not to worry you, or raise your concerns.
You have your own of which I more than understand.
But I must tell you, warn you even.
The sadness that consumes us.
The shadows that plague us.
Will always be brought by familiarity.
Keep well, dear one.