better late then never

I had sworn gentle readers, that I would never again mention the foul machinations of Madame P, but it appears that the hypocrisy of your author known no bounds and as ever I am a fool for these soft creatures. When last I saw her she was being driven towards destinations unknown and I felt that the poisoned glances we shared would be the last time our eyes would ever fall upon each other, but I had held a deep rooted suspission that she would make some attempt to contact me. Three days latter my hands traced the outline of the delicate hand writing that had been imprinted upon the cream coloured paper, and a strange mix of emotions had begun to blossom in my heart. I would not mistake my emotions towards her currently as affection, but I see this woman less contemptible and more as a flawed person whose acts of personal subterfuge create the numerous problems she encountered. To paraphrase the poet Shelley she spurned my natural emotions and made me feel like dirt, and I had fallen for someone I shouldn’t have; but I have heard the concept of forgiveness preached at the pulpit, to be honest I thought they were words more suitable for spinsters and the gullible; but as of late I have began to ruminate over those words the clergy has spoken and wondered if I can glean any truth from their words. I wanted to be mad, and make no mistake much of Madame P’s actions towards your humble author should be viewed with as much harshness as possible, but what good can come from holding on to ire and the oath of eternal enmity. I had made Madame P the focus of so much of my acrimony that she had ceased to be a person and was more like some dark beast that we speak of in hushed panicked whispers. I have begun to think that the hardest part of forgiveness is releasing those feelings, for good or ill back into the void, and finding the courage to accept the eventuality of events. It’s a terrifying thought to process, I know that for my part I want to believe that there is more then a bottomless void, and I want to believe that my feelings have meaning and value, and they will to me, but it hurts knowing that the purity of my intent was never going to be reciprocated. One day, and I hope that it is soon upon me, I want to find a pure and lasting love. Selfishly, I want it now; the thought of another poisoned love makes me wish for the largest bottle of laudanum the pharmacist can supply, yet patience is a virtue and I a willing to wait for something far greater then the awkward charms of Madame P and her ilk.