Love
Chapter 2 (writing prompt)
She stares at the letters that have always been associated by society as loyalty, commitment, understanding and warmth…. L... O... V... E… Dressed in scarlet red or pale pink sometimes scribbled in haste across the bottom of a card or letter in ink.
Her lips pursed in frustration. She felt what she thought was love returned as it burned her flesh and singed her soul. Love to her was a double-edged sword. Love was difficult, self-sacrificing and vulnerable. She squirms uncomfortably as she scrolls through old photos. Reminding herself that it isn`t a word put to page that form the bonds of love, she presses on.
Her fingers run softly over her mother’s handwriting as the images of her mother floods her mind. The tears begin to flow and she reads, “please forgive me if I ever hurt you, I didn`t mean to”.
The words pierce her heart. She scrolls on and finds the snapshot of the words at the bottom of a birthday card. His last sent to her…. I love you, Dad. Ink memorialized forever in time. She exes out of the memories and tosses her phone to the side. “That`s enough for today”, she whispers to herself.
The smallest acts she focuses on now, unlike when she was younger and thought love was loud and proud and shiny for all to see. Now love comes in a smile, or unexpected call of inquiry. Kindness is an act of love, isn`t it?
This is how she fills her yearning to feel/give love. She sees it in the small things, those things that are overlooked because they are the ordinary everyday things. Those small gestures that can go unnoticed because they are routine.
The cup placed by the fresh made morning brew he never drinks himself. The recipe you mentioned to a friend, shows up unexpectedly in the snail mailbox of; I took my time to write it out and send this to you. A morning text of “hugs” or “thinking of you”, out of the blue just for you.
The frustration she feels is an internal fight. A fight between excepting that love was shared for what it was in the time it was given and the pain it inflicted upon her at the time. She feels both emotions simultaneously. An odd way of wanting something she believes, knowing it is the most powerful feeling, yet it is also so difficult.
She writes, throwing words across the page. Sometimes in anger, sometimes in despair. She writes to grieve; she writes to heal; she writes to own everything she feels.
She writes from her soul to remember who she is.
✨Be the Light
I am not sure if I enjoy writing about things in the third person or not. There is a freedom in a way of expressing where “I” limits. It is a weird sensation.
Do you prefer to write in the first- second- or third person?
I personally like this style. It feels like I'm reading chapters from a book.
I do also like when you write like you're journaling.
I feel like any style you write is going to be a good read, so there's that.
✌️💖
Usually third person. But I vary -- sometimes between chapters.