The Letters...

Dear Nixie, I write to you in the strictest of confidence and though it may be true that there are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told, this particular matter is not the case. I am haunted in the unsaid. I lie awake in the weight of an abstruse complexity. Isn’t it true that all of us are the chameleon of heart? Must we not adapt in some settings to reach comradery, or in my case bare within us the handcuffs and shackles of saving face for the sake of our kin, to at least some extent? The truth I bare is strange, so much stranger than fiction but…here goes…. I am an adult woman who enjoys the world of Pokémon characters. There I said it. The powerful truth now does prevail. I’d like to have dropped the children off to school in a little cozzie cos play or two but alas duties calls and we must leave at the gate our hearts on a spear, before long, look straight ahead without blinking once, learn never to show too many signs of kinship and remember that it’s al

Dear Ms Nixie, I am writing to you, a ghost known by many but really known by few in truth. It was once said; “I am no bird, and no net ensnares me, I am a free human being with independent will.” That person was me. Ah, to be a woman and a writer too, was a terrible struggle indeed you know. So much was left unsaid and still it is so. It is one of the reasons I write to you dear maiden of the Millennium and on. They craft movies now based on my work. It is strange to watch from the rafters, in between the walls and floating through windows and doors like a mourning dream or a joyous revival of forgotten memories. I see the players fair, with strapping chaps in firmer fits than of the time (I’m not at all complaining of course). I Charlotte Bronte, am surely 100 thrice and more times a celebrity than during life within the confines of a mortal absoluteness. I wanted to tell you I knew philosophers. I wanted to tell you I knew musicians. I wanted to tell you I knew writers. I came