"No thankyou, I drink it black"

My Dearest Hannah,

I can only apologise for my neglect of our epistolary tradition over recent weeks. The explanation for my lack of correspondance is simple; I have nothing to report. My social life in Manchester has stagnated to the point where the only verbal exchange in which I engage on a regular basis is that of perfunctory pleasantries with whomever undertakes the task of preparing my daily coffee in Starbucks. Alas, dear Hannah "Would you like space for milk in that love" is much less than the interaction my young mind craves. I fear I have few such exchanges left before the want of real conversation will cause me to descend into a stupour under which I shall begin conversing with myself.

I am, however, fully immersing myself in revision as a diversion from my woeful situation and find myself fascinated by the work of the Transcendentalists. I urge you to consider the assertion therefore, that experience governs language and not the other way round, indeed language itself is not an arbitrary collection of sounds which are attatched to particular sentiments, rather language is a collection of feelings and impulses which have been inspired by objects or sentiments and then named after them. "Flower" is a metaphor for the feelings experienced by the first soul to behold such an object and name it thus. The language we use carries with it the weight of our own experiences and notions and therefore no word uttered by you can be defined exactly as it would be when uttered my me for our experiences of life differ so greatly. It is upon discovering this that I find myself experiencing a sense of true enlightenment; language is innate, words are just vessels which carry the inner senses into the communal arena.

I am sure you now find yourself contemplating just how long I must have spent sequestered in the library, poring over my revision texts. I can assure you my dear, it has been no short term. I can only hope that my enthusiasm for the subject matter, which owes much to the fact that the long dead authors who coined these theorems have served as my only friends of late, will be recognised by the examiners.

I have also realised during this week of solitary contemplation, that I no longer love **** and haven't for some time. I merely use the idea of loving him to assuage my lonliness. The thought that there is one out there who may find my peculiarities attractive and consent to shower me with his full attentions is of comfort to me during my moments of insecurity. Rather than look to an uncertain romantic future and clutching at faith I am ashamed to say I have been looking to a rose tinted view of the past and ignoring the glaring truth that this man is not and was not worthy of my affection. It is upon lengthy reflection that I have come to this realisation and with it the resolution to cut him out of my life as far as is possible.

However, although I have summoned the strength to dispense with the past I am still loathe to contemplate the future. It would appear that unless, through some fateful intervention, a suitor were to fall through my bedroom ceiling or occasion to propose in the Starbucks queue, it is unlikely that I shall find myself imminently attached.

I trust the irony is not lost on you that upon beginning this letter I had remarked on the lack of material at my disposal and yet have subsequently rambled on for several paragraphs!

As I cannot see my social situation improving I must leave you at this point and save the remaining ponderings of my troubled mind for the next instalment.

Do send me your news my dear, I fear that word from you may be all that preserves my sanity over the next few weeks.

Much love,
Chloexxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx