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Soft thunder

Jane Eyre inspired (Victorian style Era)

By Melissa IngoldsbyPublished 11 months ago 6 min read
Soft thunder
Photo by Joanna Kosinska on Unsplash

Dear Jane,

Did you ever see the evidence of winter start with soft thunder and the sun blooming through the gray, listless clouds? I find the snow eerie. The ice crystals that settle down inside the once lush landscape of green refresh me yet again, I feel a tormenting sensation of nostalgia for something that never existed.

I am unaware if you would even accept this letter in the post, but even as I feel the departure from each other was upsettingly inevitable, I still feel you will receive it with steady hands. Soft thunder from the scattered winds and snowfall reminded me of you. Your intensity drew me in like honey to a flower to a bee. You knew as a young, aspiring poet, I would be smitten by your enthusiasm and love for my work.

You overflowed my cup of complimentary words and your confidence in my craft. I immersed myself in your world. I immediately felt like you knew me. You published a poem in the local papers about a balm that healed, and without names or words between us, I knew it was about me. You confirmed it, yet I still stayed away as I respected your sovereignty.

Young poets these days are ostracized by their peers. The world does not care for romantic poetry. They only want greed, more power and more influence. I was born in a naive grave that led me to believe that love was the ultimate gift. Most scholarly colleagues of mine basically shoot down literature of fictitious value and love poetry as buttering the bacon, pardon the expression. It’s certainly not as prevalent as one might hope.

Did you know that I was in turmoil? That I was seething with anger, grief and a sadness that only your soft thunder of a heart could break? Oh, how wretched it is to wrestle with affection that bears no weight to the world, only to the heart! You cannot weigh yourself in blood loss when your heart feels heavy, broken and very tired.

How cruel doth a woman be when a man confesses his love but a woman cuts him off, to say it was never to be? When she herself told him she cared? When she once had confessed of feeling such compassion, such devotion? But, alas, it was not to be.

I had penned this letter many times in my own head, scratching out every single word and leaving unkempt notes that felt wrong, false and inaccurate. I know that having a broken heart for so long can make a man feel angry at the world. I find the tortured nature of this feeling is in that you said I was alone in this. That you never felt this kind of maddening pull, at least, not with me.

And yet, as I opened up my very private, very personal and intimate world to you slowly, you reminded me that hatred and fear was not apart of love. That the abuse I suffered from my mad wife was unacceptable. Did you know that I was tormented by this abuse? Did you see that in my poetry there wore a mask of tragedy and comedy that represented pure grief?

Even if you did not know it, you must’ve felt it. You might’ve thought, “Oh, he’s got the morbs,” but this feeling was never meant to be a passing melancholy. I have felt this so-called passing sadness all my life. It’s a shame, shall I say, as I have always known I was a faithful person, companion and steadfast partner. It was a complete loss of my self-control and my confidence to let myself fall into another’s pitfall of messy feelings. To immerse myself so deeply into their very pain, their fear, joy, the place they had hidden themselves away in a deep, gentle rage that was only assuaged by providence and prayer.

Now that is has been some time since we have parted, I feel that soft thunder is the only way to perfectly capture your essence. Sweet humming sounds of your voice cocooned my hardened soul with ideas on how life can be, love should be, and how our deepening sense of purpose and companionship with one another would be.

You made me feel you deserved all my extra time and attention, I always wanted you to know I would be here to support you through any ailments or troubles. You did the same for me. Our road to friendship was wrought with a great many obstacles. Healing from abuse on your side and mine was something I felt caused disharmony and discord in our communication.

We had dropped into one another’s lives——I believed it was in your arms but it was merely side-by-side. It had broken my heart when I had to initially deny my equaled expression when you confessed your feelings, that spoony sort of thing that we all understand as a crush.

I remember being beside my horse, writing to you by my carriage how platonic love was just as strong. However, at that moment, I wanted so badly to let you know I felt the same.

Merely, you tried to rectify this earlier discussion of your feelings by saying it was only a love for my poetry, not me, which felt so wrong. I have our earlier discourse of letters that were in fact, of an amorous, persistent tone. I had related your words to my mad wife at the time, to my own potential detriment and danger.

Why would anyone want to put themselves in the position of being dishonest about something so important? I don’t play politics with women’s hearts.

Why did you deny this interaction between us? I am not mad; I am of healthy constitution and my mind is not a conspiracy of delusion. Nor am I angry. I merely wish to relay facts. As of now, it is clear that your stance of not wanting to be part of my life is based on your episode of morose silence and of unbending will. This tormented me, and I have to admit privately to you I sobbed frantically when I realized you were unreachable to my pleas.

You must believe, even now, that my heart is full of unconditional gratitude to you for allowing me to be open in a manner that is honest with myself and others. This was something I never expected I could do. I believe that through it all, we found something real in the mist of our troubled past, grieving hearts and the pain of losing our trust through the darkness and abuse of others.

Now, I am here with my mad wife after our friendship of stressful discourse that ended what I thought was a very important relationship with you. She has made great strides and progress in her healing and understanding of the pain she caused others. Though, she must continue to heal and help herself to strive to be better, I feel her and my relationship has reached a new level of normality and trust. Love is there, I feel that it is becoming stronger. All of us, through prayer and providence and real change, can make our lives a whole different experience of peace and love and joy.

This might be my last letter to you, Jane.

Why does the soft thunder ripple through my heart beat like a fever-dream? Through the most inconvenient moments of my day, I find the feeling of soft thunder running down my spine. Rushing through my chest like a spirit of Fire and Water. Clouded by the sun-swept current of mysterious, mixed dying stars and gods and monsters and all manner of strange things. I feel my heart has dropped in my chest as a stone in a river and during my private moments, I feel it crippling my voice, muscles, limbs and bones.

If you ever see me, just know I’ll be the poet who is wearing Agony in Red, trying to look afternoonified but honestly, I’ll simply just be—-me. I want the same for you, unclouded and full of the pure aura of your presence:

Soft thunder that brings beauty into the earth, a roar that makes you look twice, and an unmistakable feeling of warmth, cool and fire.

Unmistakably, inexorably, and very impetuously,

Edward

Fiction

About the Creator

Melissa Ingoldsby

My work:

Patheos,

The Job, The Space Between Us, Green,

The Unlikely Bounty, Straight Love, The Heart Factory, The Half Paper Moon, I am Bexley and Atonement by JMS Books

Silent Bites by Eukalypto

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Comments (5)

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  • Paul Stewart11 months ago

    This was heartbreaking, love unfulfilled and unreturned. Written with the eloquence, intelligence and beauty that Ms Bronte would have been proud of. This is such a first-rate entry, Melissa! Well done!

  • Poor Edward, how cruel it is to know such heartbreak & lack of requite. Poor Jan, how cruel it is to know that you have caused another such pain but cannot do anything to assuage it without betraying yourself.

  • Oh my heart broke so much for Edward. I can't believe he is back with his abusive wife. Loved your letter!

  • Antoni De'Leon11 months ago

    The wife burns down the house, he goes blind and Jane hears hers the call from another city. Now there is love for you. I do believe he egained some sight and saw his children. Beautifully sad story.

  • Andrea Corwin 11 months ago

    wow. that's all I can say. I loved the flow and intelligence of this - I loved these lines: Soft thunder that brings beauty into the earth, a roar that makes you look twice, and an unmistakable feeling of warmth, cool and fire.

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