Days of absence, sad and dreary, clothed in sorrow’s dark array, - days are absent for I am weary; She I love is far away. - Jean Jacques Rousseau
19 July 1690
He came to me following the gloaming hour of a Sunday, God’s day, subsequent to my incarceration - my eyes were sodden with slumber, heart burdened by fear - he appeared that night, silent . . . elusive. At the cusp of my dreams, he offered himself in the form of a god. However, virtuous, he is not.
Nightly we convene within my mind. I am blessed with his furtive visits. I often find myself enquiring, however: Is he not a figment of my imaginings? My answer is always a resounding, no - for he is undeniably something greater.
When I awake at the completion of every night, I am fraught with the tragic mindfulness of what thou hast lost – love, life . . . my enabler for escape. He is then, no longer.
Soon, he returns.
Oh, God - please forgive the sin of thine heart. For I yearn for the constant passion of our love. Without him I am merely the paltry flesh and blood that blankets my bones - absent of a soul.
Am I bewitched? I know not. But if it were not for his love I would be lost forever.
It is mere days before he and I unite as one. Haste I wish him to make. For they are plotting my demise – I am certain of this fact. I harbor no fear though. He guides me, consoles me - promises salvation.
They share no suspicion or knowledge into the truth of our desire, for he hides within my mind.
Faintly, in a delicate slight, I seldom sense a being among the daylight. Is my mind deceiving me? His earthen scent lingers. Could he be of flesh and blood?
Many a time I ask of his origin. Silence he keeps. His lips he seals. Nonetheless, for without the temperate solace of thine glorious stranger I would then be dead within. For that, I am grateful.
I await his return with restless unease. For the storm that is overturning my life has taken on power. We have but no time to waste.