Untitled - Campbell University

e mistaken for that of a proper young lady, but this new coloration, this ghastly,
sweaty film that even now is spreading itself thickly over my face and hands, stops
my breath when I glance in the mirror. My hair, previously a tousled mass, has
become a limp creature, spreading lethargic shadows like an infection each time it
swipes its curled, yellow fingers across my skin. I have grown tired and hideous by
degrees, and still I have no hope of recovery, although my new resolve does give me
relief. I ask for just a few pages more to explain myself.
Never in my life have I desired solitude, but as my appearance now
repulses even myself, I have begun to seek out silent rooms in which to sit undisturbed
for hours. I do not mean to say that thoughtful contemplation was a practice
altogether unfamiliar to me, but outside my thoughts are usually filled with
the movements of life and the millions of colors that make it up. Sitting beneath a
tree, I forget to think about troubles and instead let the rushing wind between the
branches fill up my ears until I am mindful of nothing else. In the house’s drafty
rooms, though, my past swirls down on me in chilly blasts, and my future slams in
front of my face repeatedly, like the heavy library doors at the end of the hallway.
You might assume that these unpleasant thoughts would put me in a melancholy
state, but they have strangely led to an inexplicable joy.
This joy stems from nothing other than spending a considerable
amount of time thinking about you, dear Cousin. You might believe that only our
uncle supervises you, swinging open the library door long enough to reassure himself
that you are still alive and then letting the heavy wood slam loudly shut. However,
you can have confidence that even when I cannot walk down the hallway to see
you, I listen carefully for your footsteps. As I sit with my senses
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