Dearest Hamlet,

You write that the darkness has lifted, yet hinted it remains simmering below. There is no way I could quit my pen and paper at such a juncture, as you yourself seem unsure. This, perhaps more than any of our previous discourses, perturbs me. Dearest Hamlet, I shall wait for you, your Ophelia, and pen you words from reality so when the shadows sink in again, winding their magic about your wrists, you shall have a tether, a solace, in the face of such thoughts. I take no presumption that my words themselves may be a tether, instead I leave that in the humble hands of Alexandre Dumas, a man with a quest written into the very parchment his own quill scratched upon.

You speak of putting my emotions and words to my own writing and I admit that I have often found myself penning such words, twisting plots and characters together as charms and magic might were it not my quill that steered them. Yet each story remains unconnected, a basic piece of the puzzle absent from the words that letter my pages. How to connect that deep depth of feeling, the magic coursing through my veins, from sorrow to euphoria seems an impossible task.

Always your Ophelia

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Perfect Lottie vibes courtsey of MJ <3