Journal I

Journal I

Writing, sweet, glorified writing, to which I give the gratitude of thanking many folk whose hands deliver such a quill and the fires to etch my wording upon. Dear God, I feel my hands slipping beneath my brutal fingertips. How brash.

Aspiring something I'm none too comfortable with yet, I lend you an ear and let you see that my stiff legs lay upon my royal bed, all my flesh exposed to pestilence, embracing my corners as I shift. I'm trembling at the fear of this, yet in this moment I feel no need to show it. My heart has been breaking in this late time, it feels each night as it worsens, yet I can feel it beating stronger within me to this love that I so desire. I can't quite embrace that feeling quite, however. I hate this woman so much, oh but I love her. She won't leave my thoughts.
Thinking has left me with one conclusion: I'm slowly killing off my body; every bit of nerve, every inch within my spirit has left me, it's leaving! I shake and quiver at night in a lonely bed with twisted thoughts and memories that leave me stunned when the sun knocks at my door so melodically. Oh Ann, my dear precious Ann, the love I store for you is killing me, dear. These small letters that my dear will never see will never be muffled in her ears, she will never hear these, nor will she stumbled upon these, behold these, cherish these! These small letters she can never see so clearly, so vibrantly bestowed upon her lips as she reads one by one! If she had found them on her lips, she would have the best of worlds trying to hear me speak them so softly, so normal without flaw! The man of drama am I, speaking so mumbled and lowered.
My eyes, what black dust sleeps under my eyes, it's resting place. My eyes, when I inspect them, they seem so faded and gone. They have seen too much to deal with mentally, they're suffering, I know. The skin above my lip has collected hair; Ann has seen it underneath my mask, her eyes have promised me this. Oh Lord, she pictures me at night, tries to imagine if I have hair, if I'm gorgeous, her smile tells me. She thinks of my figure, of my hands, my toes, my stomach. She would be let down if I had let her seen. A hairless man, shaved, so frail, so tall but yet so small to her. What a weak man. She has her eyes set on a prince, a man of virtue and status. I am not a brave man despite my actions. I am a coward. I depend on people to give me strength. I rely on memories.
Somehow, though it sounds rather humiliating, I feel some of my normal functions leaving me. I feel less strong. I feel as if my stability has left me. I leave these rooms of mine and I shake, I drool, I cry, my hands begin to quiver and my thoughts turn to a pile worth nothing. I begin focusing on the things I love and have cherished, but they seem so far gone. I miss the feeling of when Susan was first born; so happy was I to have such a beautiful small girl as a kin to I; I miss the feeling of my mother glowing with her child deep inside her womb; I miss the memories of happy nights as a very young boy.

Perhaps one day my dear sweet Ann will deliver love to me, a confession, a truly deep and satisfying comprehension to my covered ears under my black sheet that tells me she has forgiven my pathetic mistakes and will take me as I am. But I fear for the worst that her coughing has only given her this plague, and that it may wrap her in a cloth of death to take her quite soon. My dear, Ann.