I have achieved all that I wanted to by my own work through other's hands. Shouldn't the glory remain, and not the pain?
The blood stains on my hands have faded, and now look like the spots of old age, which devours all and leaves ashes of the greatness. I wish it was so, but my age should not hinder me yet. I am too strong to die. I control too much to die.
In my dreams there are women who run past me, long unkempt hair flying into the wind, laughing maliciously as they damn anything that stops them. The blood on their thighs is peeling, and fresh layers are added as they frolic under a moon that was not there before. They reek of power and I wonder, why is it that they can hold so much power and still be women? I have given up so much to have a man's strength, and yet the man that I am allied with is but the ground that they tread upon.
What can I do? I am ruined, the woman's body that I hide in is but a farce that has the blood of past deeds pooling around the hem. No blood shall come from me, it is all from others. It flows from them like they were made of nothing else, a primal creature where I hunger to be more.
There are ways I can do this, but how? The answers are above and beyond me, and they cackle like the sisters that my husband wrote to me of. Could it be that in the end he is the right one? Who is by his side? How do I know that it's me? This truth is driving me into madness.
Fin