Strelley's Journal, early 1553.
Once again, I write to you knowing that you will not read these words. I have spent the years thinking of you each day, looking at every face I pass knowing it is not yours but hoping nevertheless. Hoping to share a word with you, to explain, to hear your voice speak to me of times past. And though those times were not happy, save for a few moments of clarity between us, wishing to live their promise, their hope, again. I have travelled the world, searching. Not for you, I know well enough where I could find you. But for a way to navigate the endless days that are without you, without hope of you, and without that part of me that always stays with you wherever you are and wherever I am. I do not wish my life were at an end as I perhaps once did. I do not for a moment think that I should be reunited with you in Heaven. The more I see of the world, the less I think of God, the less I think that He has put us asunder, and the more I think that there is no force for good or evil in the world, just people and their choices. Would I choose differently were I to have the chance? Sometimes, I think not, because then I would not have lived those moments that we shared. Sometimes, I think so, because then you would not have suffered as you did. If God is as the Bible tells us, am I then Job? If it is so, He chose the wrong man. I do not have the faith to say that God is good. If I be wicked, woe unto me; and if I be righteous, yet will I not lift up my head. I am full of confusion; therefore see thou mine affliction; For it increaseth. Thou huntest me as a fierce lion: and again thou shewest thyself marvellous upon me.
He does not listen to my prayers. I have stopped making them.
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When to the sessions of sweet silent thought