WILLOCK 39

"I have read many books and letters, walked many roads just to clear my mind, but no fantasy would ever fulfill what this is...'

'It's like a bullet ingrained in my heart, fresh and painful. When you are there, it is not painful, but when in solitude, it hurts...'

'I have seen the world crumble in all sorts of ways, but I never realized how mine crumbled just on your sight...'

'I built the walls so big and huge; I locked the doors with the best of locks I have knowledge of, but Allah knows, they are all crumbling down...'

The words were many, some written in Arabic, or rather, Islam, and others in English. They were all Amir's letters; I would call them letters, but they were just words. It seemed this sheet was the dustbin where he would throw his feelings. It seemed these letters were where he would just be himself, vulnerable in all matters. Of course, we men were never supposed to be. Even on occasion, my heart was rumbling and breaking into the craziest pieces. Even on occasion, my mind would not cooperate with my body; not a tear, not a sole grief, would another see me. I guess that's how weak I am, or is it strength? You tell me.

Dear reader, as you know, I walked this road, unknown, and just lost. I sought comfort under the bask of the moon in the forests as I watched Ezron sleep. Every night I would look at that delicate thing up high above and just see it, speak to it, hope for answers, and ask many questions that my mind could never embody. Then, my sleeping schedule became longer than a few minutes, until I lost the sense of sleep. My body had stopped focusing; it was so huge for me to drive; it was so heavy for me, but my mind kept it strong. All that then mattered was my destination—wherever I wanted to go, wherever this place I am today—to see my younger friend, Amir. As I read all this, he is currently knocked out after the many drinks we have had to date. There was a party, to be precise. I was still the man behind the piano at the party, but I played for just an hour or so, and then I was forced to leave there, and we were asked to mingle with the rest of the visitors. I had noticed the baron of London, the person responsible for the first ballroom dance, that my eyes seriously laid on Princess Diana, so on his sight, I decided to leave; maybe he came on behalf of the King, or something of that to be, when the princess of this country, Princess Hasmine, followed me, and I just had to take her to the roof top of the castle. Today, I was not afraid of the consequences that a man gets when found with an unbetrothed lady, alone in the dark. I just needed to be alone, and she seemed to just walk by me and ask if maybe something was wrong.

Six months have passed since my arrival at this castle. The servants, king, queen, prince, and princesses have been quite welcome and quite good company to me. I have formed quite a more than-liking bond with Amir's sister, the princess, Hasmin, to avoid any confusion. We have been enjoying most tables together, walking down the garden together, and dressing great just to appease each other, as I suppose she does too. I have realized that I have quite increased my fondness for her and how much her existence, and just her sight, makes my heart lace in adjustments. How much her presence becomes nothing but the only want that is shining for me, but she is already there as I am; I already know; I have already swept her feet off the ground, but falling is a delicate word. As a man of importance and a man who has experienced the burn and ache of breaking, I would never want to see a woman break, but she entices me; she makes me joyous; she makes me see I through the lens of a warrior,the best of all, one in a million; she makes my world brighter; her smile picks me up from the different reactions my mind puerces me with; and all that is left of thought is her, utterly alone; but what am I to offer this princess? How am I to let her hold me in her arms? If my arms know, making her enter my walls will bring her nothing but hopelessness. No man wants that—not me, really, never me. I know love; I know how it feels to bring flowers to one and ask her to have a dance. A dream I once had with someone special, someone who seems to pop up on me even when my mind is in the wildest of hates. Maybe that is love. What worse of a man who gives a lady roses? But back in his mind, he knows that the rose of giving is not worth who he is; his bed has no fragrance or smell of roses, nor does it have the smell of pure bleeze; there is not one single freshness in that bed. The bed is full of thorns, full of could haves and should haves, full of what shall happen, full of fantasies and hopefulness, full of wants and yearns, full of nothing but fullness, but that is all it is, that is all he can offer—the woman he claims to love—how stupid of such.

During my stay, I have been taught. I have been taught most skills, which I find irrelevant, but what else would I do but join? I joined the princes to be taught how to lead a nation that's breaking right in the core. I have learned how to speak genuine and sense, quoting the Quran and making dua; I have learned the importance of faily; the importance of everything and everyone; and my stay here has been quite fulfilling. Next month, or rather the start of this next month, welcomes a new year off the Arabian calendar. I am not quite sure they use the same as in my country, but here they have called all people to join celebrations. Their letters, filled with the utmost and best of invitations, have traveled all through the world, to the greatest kings and queens, to all the peasants at hand; everyone here has been welcomed; maybe this is to be something done every year by the king in comparison to his father's doing. I haven't spoken to Ezron after my left; I don't know if I have said this, but let me second state again, for I totally have a feeling for that brother. I wonder about his actions in the hotel: is he happy or just letting life move at the pace it wants him to move through? He always told me life is never a bed of roses; it will hit you right where you are weakest and make you rise to the best, just when you really let your thoughts and actions surpass everything.

Currently, thinking of all this, I lie in bed facing the rooftops. Lack of sleep seems to find the best in me these days. I am not thinking of anything, but what am I to make of myself other than the man behind the piano? My thoughts had been maybe one day to be a farmer somewhere far away and maybe marry a girl, a girl of my liking with whom I shall offer what is left of me, and maybe she will help me start a family far away. I had thought that I would disclose my roots once I realized that I could trust her. I will maybe tell her about my hate and the reasons behind it, or maybe I will bury all that in the ground and forget if all that ever happened. I would forget my father, who had been my pillar of strength since my young age. I would forget my brother Charles, who taught me nothing but that respect is the only thing that makes me stronger. My sister drifted apart from me at some point in life, and I saw her; I saw her be taught the workings of being a woman; I saw her be taught embroidery; I saw her knit her sweaters; and I saw her check me out from far, but I forgot then how to approach her after my father's strict deal that I should never be seen around that delicate girl. Maybe she hated me, but what was there to hate about me when, all along, I did nothing but want her to approve my doings and my words to her? After father's wife bore other children, her focus was on the three little ones, Alfred, Alice, and Jack. I never really spent time with these kids, as I left for my adventures right when Alfred was about three years old and my mother was yet to conceive another. When I came home, I stayed for a while, and my father sent me to the viscount, so I was nothing but a certain unknown stranger in their kitchen. I still remember the strange look they gave me when I was seated at the table after my adventures, eating with them. It was like no one in the family had told them of someone by the name of Willock, an elder, an older brother, with sharp blue eyes and brown hair, who was very thin and somewhat tall. The eyes were just a compliment Alice gave me: 'You have nice eyes; I wish mine were as that.' And she left without waiting for me to say another word.