Jane

What is the point of love?

If it is always associated with pain and suffering?

Love and madness are inseparable.

It promises us everything and yet gives us nothing.

The heavens rise and then fall.

There is no cheerfulness.

Her pen scratched across the coarse-grained paper. The steep crease on her forehead revealed that Jane was in her own world. The burnt-down candle next to her inkwell gave off a sparse glow that dimly illuminated the paper in front of her.

She eagerly filled the page with words, breathing life into it. It almost seemed as if the pen itself was alive as Jane let it fly across the paper with her delicate hands, line after line.

This act radiated a lightness, as if this delicate, pale hand had never done anything else. As if it was only there to guide the white, worn quill with flowing movements across the greyish, matt paper.

Jane could sit at her little wooden table for hours and write as if the devil himself had possesed her.

It was her escape from reality. Her way of dealing with problems, worries, fears and desires. Although she had not yet seen much of the world, she understood a great deal because her knowledge was vast.

Jane devoured books of all kinds in order to learn more and more. There was nothing she couldn't be interested in. Jane's imagination was her only escape. Nothing gave her more pleasure than delving into words. Curiosity and a thirst for knowledge drove her forward.

If it had been up to her, she would have done nothing but read books and use her pen.

But this wish was denied her.

Jane wanted to be able to look after herself and decide for herself what she wanted. The strong young woman wanted to live from her pen in a time ruled by men.