1 October, 1937
We have been so ridden with visitors that I never had a moment to write. In fact I was so touched by your letter that I couldn't. Isn't it odd?
Virginia.
Dear so and so
I sit here drinking coffee, contemplating the final storm that will take me and I think about you and everyone I’ve ever loved. I think about love a lot more than I should really. Now I wish I could write about that I wish I wrote the way I thought I endure but not enough to spit my heart and guts out for you to spell the words as raw as they come, as desperate as I think them.
I have always despised people that say they cannot love anymore. Love, for me is like an energy. Hence, it can neither be created nor destroyed, but it transforms from one form to another. Which means, love as an energy shall always be there in our lives.
No matter how much we try to deny its presence in us as an outcome of hurt or pain or whatever. But I do strongly believe in the transforming part. You can never be comfortable with love. One minute you want so badly for a person to rest their head on your shoulder and the next minute you cannot bear their weight on you anymore.
camera roll
Playlist
poem for a change:
reads
with love,
Zaye