Dear Sylvia

Dear Sylvia,

I read your poem — the one you wrote of me. I yearn for more, yet I know that what there remains is all I have left of you. I heard you married shortly before you wrote it. How have you been fairing since your wedding? You worry me, darling. I sense that you have been downcast as of late. I see your work and what you speak of. Many a poet questions death and suffering. Is it not fitting for a writer to question what is, what was, and what will be? Yet, there comes a time when one must purge their thoughts of such melancholy. Thinking dark thoughts may lead you down a path with which you cannot return.

    Has marriage been giving you doubts, my dear? Did the joy and splendor of your relationship fade as Mr. Hughes slipped the cold ring onto your finger? Where has your joy fled to? The wedding bells have ceased their sweet songs and you have been left hollow with the echo of that day. Time is what it takes to adapt to a new way of life; it’s a struggle, but you’ll have to remain strong — strong as the ring that rests upon your finger. You’re entering a new stage of life, which is bound to influence your writing. Change can be for the better or for the worse; let it be a positive change. I hope it hasn’t given you cause to forever walk wary and skeptical, yet politic and ignorant. 

    I see you at that kitchen table, observing me as I rest upon my perch. Do not think me so free. I may have wings, but I cannot fly to the moon, nor across the sea. I cannot fly from the responsibilities of my flock. I am as much tied to my family as you are to yours. There is strength in community. Do not seclude yourself from those that love you.

    You say you feel you’re lacking inspiration for your work. You say you have been feeling neutrality which has been your struggle. Neutrality from the weight of depression, neutrality from the void of lacking creativity, or the neutrality from the absence of spirituality? I think, my dear, that every writer experiences a drought within their work at some point or another, so there is no cause for alarm. I know you have the creativity within you; it’s simply a dry spell. Hold out a little longer and be receptive to the outpour of inspiration because it is on it’s way. I know it. You already seem to be finding inspiration through the most average and obtuse of objects. That is the true heart of a poet.

    Do you find inspiration from me? Keep that creative flame alive. I hope I am a help to you. I hope I can help to stoke that fire. We are connected, you and I. I know that you have little faith since the death of your father, yet you still continue to explore the idea of angels and celestial lights. Do you seek direction? Direction in life, in creativity, or in spirituality? Let me be your guide.

    You have clearly been delving into the unknown works of the world. You have the most wondrous mind, Sylvia. You see the beauty and wonder in the smallest of God’s creatures — even me. I am but one of many within this vast world, but you still see me as a special and celestial being. Everything has a purpose on earth and you have brought light to this concept. You think of me as such a precious thing. I wonder, have I become your angel? Have I bestowed you with a new founded creativity? Your words are the paint that depict a scene so vivid and clear; the ink from your pen strokes life into the page which is your canvass. You have the ability to express your emotions and scenery with such evocativeness that leaves me in awe.

    You have creativity in you yet — can’t you see? The way you view the world is different from others. Tap into that and it can set you free. Have you been awaiting a savior? I wish I could be that savior. Well, I pray that savior finds you, my dear. But I think… I think that savior must come from within. Perhaps the angel has already found you. Have you found an epiphany yet? I hope it finds you quickly before it’s too late. I hope that whatever revelation you find is the one you need. You see the miracles in the most basic aspects of life; I pray you use those as nourishments of hope and faith that all will be all right in the end. Stay strong, Sylvia. Oh how I miss you so. If only you had stayed strong. If only you had heeded my words. If only.

Faithfully,

Your Black Rook