Are you mad, Brynleigh? Is that your problem? Have you taken utter leave of your senses? Is your mother right about you? That there's always been something a little off in your head, that you're unable to make sound decisions, that you're too much heart and not enough practicality?
You don't love this man. How could you? You scarcely know him. He's nothing but secrets and haunted memories that you don't understand and know nothing about. Is it his appeal to your heart that's making you so cursedly sentimental? Is it your own excruciating loneliness? Having a man to stand next to you and hold your hand and put an arm around you and make that terrible, aching, gaping void feel a little less...
Yes, yes, I know. He makes you stop thinking. And you welcome that, don't you. You welcome the soft, sweet whisper of a fantasy that blots out the scars and the nightmares and the terrifying reality of what you lost.
(a portion of hasty, haphazard writing here is viciously scribbled out and blotted with smears)
I must pull myself together. I will not deny the truth. To say that I feel nothing would be a lie, and it is useless to do so. I must examine my heart. Ruthlessly. I must determine what I feel and why I feel it...and what to do about it.
I will not be tossed about like a boat in a tempest. I am here to find myself. To find my purpose again. To give in to one's sentiments is to throw the oars to the waves and be at the mercy of the currents and the winds. If I know anything of the heart I am burdened with, it is that it will drive me to the brink of death for its own aims and passions. I have walked that precipice already and do not wish to tread there again.
Nor would I bring any hurt down upon him. I pray that he never suffers a moment of sorrow at my hand. The hand of the broken woman. The grey-faced widow.
