Isn't This Beautifully Written?

Should My Knight Ever Enquire

Should my knight ever enquire why the drawbridge is not perpetually lowered, I hope he will grant me the indulgence of an explanation before he mistakes caution for unwillingness.

The tower in which I dwell was not erected in anticipation of his arrival.

Nor was it constructed to keep the world at bay.

It simply came into existence one stone at a time, assembled patiently by circumstances over which its occupant possessed remarkably little authority.

Some stones arrived disguised as disappointment.

Others bore the unmistakable weight of grief.

A few were delivered by love itself, though they proved considerably heavier than anyone had anticipated.

One learns, after sufficient seasons have passed, that repairing walls is often easier than repairing hearts.

It would therefore be quite unfair to accuse the former of appearing first.

Should he find the gate slower to open than he had expected, I entreat him not to imagine it locked.

Timber, much like trust, requires a little time before it settles comfortably into place.

He may also discover that the lady within has become rather peculiar in her habits.

She collects maps with no immediate destination.

She keeps books in unreasonable quantities.

She finds uncommon happiness in rain against old windows.

She is capable of holding lengthy conversations with Highland cattle, donkeys and sheep, whilst maintaining an entirely respectable silence around fashionable society.

She considers a quiet walk infinitely superior to a crowded ballroom.

She believes tea improves almost every difficulty known to mankind.

She has been known to pause halfway through an ordinary sentence simply because a better word has politely presented itself.

These, I confess, are lamentable inadequacies of my character for which I have long abandoned the hope of recovery.

There was once a season in which I imagined every closed door concealed another waiting to be opened.

Life, however, proved itself a sterner tutor than youthful optimism.

It taught restraint where innocence had previously governed.

Patience where certainty once resided.

And discernment where enthusiasm had been permitted far too generous a voice.

Yet I should dislike him to mistake these lessons for sorrow.

For despite appearances, the tower is no melancholy prison.

Its windows remain open.

Music drifts through its rooms.

Letters continue to arrive.

Dreams still occupy the upper shelves.

Hope, though somewhat older now, continues to insist upon keeping a light in the highest window every evening.

Not because she expects rescuing.

Merely because she has never entirely abandoned the delightful possibility of being understood.

I seek no knight to slay dragons on my behalf.

The dragons and I have reached something resembling a respectful acquaintance.

I ask only that, should he happen upon this curious little tower, he pause long enough to wonder how they first came to live here.

For every wall has its architect.

Every silence possesses a history.

And every guarded heart was once astonishingly fearless.

Should he choose to remain awhile, I believe he may discover something rather unexpected.

The drawbridge was never the true obstacle.

It merely required someone patient enough to wait while it remembered how to lower itself once more.