I once wrote a letter. It was my wild endeavor to hold my right; my degradation, my pride, my happiness, and my anguish. I wrote about when I felt, what I felt and fairly how I felt. I wrote that after an unfortunate day when I got to know, what there was to know. It was not meant to be a full stop, we were not history, not yet, but in a twisted way it was a mixture of both and more, as the premature abortion of a certain affection was mutually acquiesced. Where do I go from a dead end, alone? Only logical to retrace the steps to a point, where there was relief to the suffocation, where there was enough strength to pick up and plough through, or so, one might say. Can I ever reach that cross roads, with all heart, mind and soul? I had an inch of doubt. What was making it so tough to let-go of the phantom was beyond my comprehension. That was until yesterday. Now, today, I know what to do. The driver for change in attitude is either I subconsciously, know the cause, or simply I don’t care anymore. I decide to sever some of the ties that entwine me to that particular past. I now dare to bare a tiny piece of my soul to others. A rash act of inviting strangers into the ambit, only one had tread. This is purely in the light of the search for that final, absolute closure; to lose the ghost of the past, in an attempt to win it back, morphed into a more pleasing confidant. Here, my ghost, I’m ready to break the promise and go against all your prior confrontations. But you be comforted, knowing that I’m in a better place now. Reliving those ethereal memories one more time, and then I will be done. What a consternation of soul was mine that dreary afternoon! How all my brain was in tumult, and all my heart in insurrection! Yet in what darkness, what dense ignorance, was the mental battle fought! I could not answer the ceaseless inward question--why I thus suffered; now at the distance of--I will not say how many years, I see it clearly. Something profound stops me from my next words. One of these days, I will not stop at this juncture. My pledge to you will not hold me down and I will let the world know what transpired in that letter. Well, perhaps, tomorrow.
(Italicized from Wuthering Heights)
In the background: Tune