A letter unfinished, unsent

Dearest Grandfather, honoured Earl of Parham,

Years have passed since I am writing you this letter in hopes that it finds you in good health. You have always wished that I were to become an officer in the army and I remember days in which our voice was unheared for I was young and I thought I knew better and I graced you with silence as you had with your determination. I have met with Lord Edrington and recieved your message. It greaves me to inform you that my mind still stands firm, and my heart pleads that one day you may see and come to agree with my choice.

*And there he sat before the piece of paper and as hard as he may have tried to write more, each thought was crossed with another. He felt the words came crude, not fine.

And in part he wished to continue, but his heart told him that the letter, he would not send. Finished, unfinished, no matter in which state. Words refused to come, and his convictions still stood unrelenting. Perhaps they were shaken now, just a little and this was the reason he'd even thought of writing. Lost as to what was his purpose, desiring more and getting less. He wished to tell his granfather how his life was, what had gone on, his hopes and expectations, and more. Yet the paper refused to budge, and glared back up at him as blank as it were before, but for the words he had already written and Crossed. Perhaps he sought guidance, a word of wisdom that the Lord was clearly very rich off. Instead though he folded the paper and placed it into his pocket. Perhaps another time, perhaps never.*