Hamlet,

My soul longs to reach out to you, to bring you comfort. I would grow wings to fly to your ebony tower if I could bring you such solace. As it is, I shall image that my letters can do this. Perhaps they might be a balm to you.

To suffer such a fate, to be thrust into the chaos of a mind one was not born to, is a prison of an existence. All too easily can I image the void in which you have been thrust. An airless and dark location, the air full of must. What is a life lacking in the scent of petrichor? To not savor the tickle of grass under foot, or the playful breeze in the shy? What of the feel of the a gentle morning mist seeping at the edges of one's existence, gently awakening one to the beginning of a new day.

But this letter has rambled beyond its purpose, and I do hope you shall forgive me for such indulgences. Do not mistake them for a lack of interest, I find your description of each method to be truly captivating. Perhaps I ought to be scared of such descriptions and yet all I find is that my own curiosity only wishes to hear more of this. To consider the nooks and crannies that might be coaxed out of one. To view that of a pensive, a ghost of a memory surrounding me. Or perhaps I have misunderstood the sensations you have put forth upon paper...

I have found this out from your letter: before the latter method, you prided yourself on your orderly mind. As I doubt I could ever make such a claim I shall hold fast to your hand and lead you through the mires, to help you see the beauty in the chaos. Hold tight and perhaps you shall even find golden threads of your own to follow.

Your Ophelia

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Perfect Lottie vibes courtsey of MJ <3