At Once You See The Light

'I spent my years at Rugby under the careful supervision of the older boys and the schoolmasters. They taught me well I suppose, but there was something missing, something I could not begin to comprehend. As you might have guessed, we were very much force-fed the literary greats from the word go. And as much as I admire Keats, Blake and Wordsworth, there is only so much someone can stand. I needed something new and fresh, and that is where I developed this longing for London. Do you remember my earliest letters to you? I had read about you somewhere and sent you sycophantic letters by the boatload. I imagine you didn't look at them though.'

The words end there, it appears as if William had wanted to continue (below there is a scribbled out sentence and a piece has been torn from the bottom) but lacked the will. Or perhaps something had triggered in his thought, and seized his writing hand. Who knows. But what I do know, is that I have been indoors for too long. I need to go outside. Carefully, I folded the letter once again, and tucked it under a weight inside the box. Then, locking the box, I slid it under my bed again.

~

Standing by the window, it was clear to me that the city had not died with him. I wondered just why it was so bright, these sort of Sundays always are though. But it's not a welcoming brightness; no, there is something powerful about a Sunday, they permiate your very self and shudder your bones. Is it boredom? Or is it something deeper, do these days force us to recall our childhoods, and the lazy Sundays we suffered then. No matter what it is, you are expected to feel grief, loss or regret.

It is days like these where we remember the happiest times, the laughter, the tears, the cigarettes and alcohol.
All these play heavy on the heartstrings; I think it's time to go for a walk.