Tonight, dearest friends, I ask for not only your ear, but also your shoulder. You see, as I attempt to piece together the wild thoughts of my teeming mind, I address you with a solemnity that can only come from those things we can hardly shape into vowels, or put into words. It's a feeling, a thought, a suspicion which has driven me to reckless attempts to make good in a battle of colliding shades of grey.
When I was young, my sense of morality (though a quivering droplet hewn from the rifts of a great ocean) drove me to freely choose abandonment in one pivotal instance. For years, I would grapple with and attempt to make sense of my decision and the ramifications that followed. This week has brought on a slew of questions and re-assessments of certain assumptions under which I operate.
As always, the gentle and delicious words of Ms. Charlotte Bronte soften my discontent: