Dear Jane

Dear Jane,

I hope you know I’m trying anything at this point to try and be free, and it’s a process that is taking up all of my energy.

It’s for a variety of reasons, to keep myself sane and be at peace, as I mentioned before. But mainly, I wish to speak with you freely as we had done so many times without reproach or anger spilling out by the madness of my mentally unstable wife. The mad raven is wildly jealous of my affection for you, even just as a friend, and she will do anything to stop our letters to go to post. Almost everything I write and do is with you in mind, as you are my muse. I wish I could relay better to you just how much you mean to me, Jane, but my words are feeling as floppy and useless as my own body is, my energy is usurped by a much more complicated force, and as such, so are my words. I want to direct and fierce, like a lion, but right now I’m a meek antelope, hiding amongst the shadows, yet planning in those shadows for my freedom.

I hope in this meantime you keep creating your works of masterpiece, your beautiful art, and know that one day all of this could be better for you, and I know you are a very strong person, Jane Eyre, my free little bird.

I swore to you I’d write you everyday, and I have, and this is for no one else but your lovely eyes.

I love you, always, my dearest. I’ll write to you until the day I perish, I swear this.

Love, Edward Rochester