Dear Wife

Written in response to: Start your story in the middle of a traffic jam.... view prompt

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Fiction Lesbian Romance

I took to taking a walk around our crescent, this morning; I admit to feeling terribly low and thought perhaps a walk would serve a change of mood. I hoped to see the Peacock upon the route, but as usual, this proved frivolous and, well, you know me; I find hope to be a faceless friend and yet I still trust in its shadow - I wish I would not. It is not unlike faith or prayer, or luck for I too have come to understand they do not favor anybody in particular, whether the person is dangerous or angelic - they come with consequences and high expectations that only spoil those who tend to believe that dreams come true by doing nothing or perhaps by doing too much for no good reason - not I, though, but in secret, and against my better judgments, I do believe in luck and hope and hold great faith in the belief that there are indeed miracles that require no effort, yet unlike you, I dream and I dream far too often, and farther and I am afraid that someday I won’t find my way back - the journey of low self-esteem is a hard one to shed; sometimes I feel deranged in its continuous scratching at lacerations that do not itch, but I do my best to pierce through its melancholy and strive on an art that will never benefit you, nor bring reprieve.

Will, I only know hard times in the way I know it to be internally despite the external eye who may look upon my life and wonder why she complains? Count your blessing, they say, but they do not know the turmoil that coils around my brain that clasps my rational thinking, (it does exist. the logic in me.) partially snuffing it out so much so, that I wonder then how my biological sister manages hers and then I remember that she doesn’t, and we are not so dissimilar despite our odds - I have just fought longer, than her, inside this game that points to an end like a mirage in the Sahara.

I am not myself too entirely today; I have not been kind to myself nor gentle or considerate. I have found no time to listen and contemplate or reflect. I reminded myself, that life is long; perhaps far too long and not too long ago I confessed to my mother with asperity, that I was not built for this world she birthed me into; it is not because it is cruel, but that it is mundane - colorless. (None of which is your fault); This is my own struggle.

Ah! how I wish that I could bring wealth within our circle of love; the wealth that purchases invaluable things and oh! How I long to adorn you with the kindness of lavish gifts of time and freedom and rest and peace, but I cannot - sometimes, when you aren’t looking, I reach out to the stars and the planets and I whisper to them; is my fate sealed? I ask.

I dream far too often to remember that everything requires hardship and even then when I awake to it, my pockets lay bare. But I pretend, in what I enjoy, despite its pointless compulsions to write in writing that someday, it may just prove fruitful; perhaps posthumously - for you; My words have always been the only thing I own and even then, in its richness where my heart pours itself into, and my imagination leaps over boundaries beyond constellations, it will be the poorest I’ll ever be and the wealthiest I’ll ever become.

There is self-pity in me that I cannot forsake, but it does not alter my admiration for you; when I turn to look your way, in quiet, I find I love the parts of you that I am not - You find my place and return me home.

I am not myself too entirely today; I have not been kind to myself nor gentle or considerate. I have found no time to listen and contemplate or reflect. I reminded myself, that life is long; perhaps far too long and not too long ago I confessed to my mother with asperity, that I was not built for this world she birthed me into; it is not because it is cruel, but that it is mundane - colorless. (None of which is your fault); This is my own struggle.

My words have always been the only thing I own and even then, in its richness where my heart pours itself into, and my imagination leaps over boundaries beyond constellations, it will be the poorest I’ll ever be and the wealthiest I’ll ever become.

But then I turn to you and I find that riches are more than words can express; there requires no hardship, no forebodings, no animosities. I do not have to seek very far, or search very long for respite. Sometimes, when you aren’t looking, I reach out to the stars and the planets and I whisper to them; is my fate sealed? I ask. - But I pretend, in what I enjoy, despite its pointless compulsions to write in writing that someday I will find success and pay my dues for the lack of having not - Having not at the capacity at which you do and with any luck, because luck is the only thing I have, and with a little belief to spice it up, I will be someone you stand beside proudly (despite my flaws and mistakes and misdeeds).

I took to taking a walk around our crescent, this morning; I admit to feeling terribly low and thought perhaps a walk would serve a change of mood - The Peacock, I’ve learned, is dead and finally so, because he never did find his mate though, he tenderly called for her night after night.

When I turn to look your way, in quiet, I find I love the parts of you that I am not - You find my place and return me home.

November 30, 2021 17:31

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