I've written a couple of little things recently that I've decided to share. Feel free to provide your thoughts and such.

1927-2006

In between the numbers and during the dash, I met a man who spent his whole life trying to make friends. He was of medium build and skeptical of others, from their appearances to their intentions. He told me of us distrust of everybody, of his fears of having nobody. He kept his eyes open all the time for the right sort of person, not only to love, but to befriend, to share things with; a person he could show to the world. He told me how he relied on first impressions, the gut instinct that tells more about a persons style and charm than three-hour-long conversations over coffee. He told me how he trusted himself and only himself. He trusted his judgments, he trusted his persuasions. All the while he spent this time trying to win the approval of himself. I had a hard time understanding this at first, so when I asked him to explain it, he put it along these lines: "I had absolute faith in my ability to judge character, so when I met somebody with whom I might want to make friends, whenever I put the decision to my gut, I could never follow through with the friendship." It made sense. The weeks and months morphed into years, his trust in himself grew stronger. People passed in and out of his life, but mostly out. As he aged, a fear took root inside him. He feared that the people he might choose to befriend, and god forbid love, would be the wrong people. He supported his fickle opinions more rigorously. He quelled the fear of missing out on opportunities at love through loving the wrong people. He spoke less, interacted less. His judgement was used less, he saw no need to exercise its strengths. The hairs of his brow thickened while those of his head thinned. His skin stretched and later relaxed, sliding over the sharp mounds of his cheeks. His bones weakened. His resolve did not. The days got shorter and the nights lengthened. He told me how he rarely saw people at all, and when once he found himself in bed surrounded by strangers, they didn’t know his name. He told me how he lost the ability to speak, for which he thanked the strength of his judgement. It didn’t matter that he couldn’t interact with the strangers around his bed - he had no desire to do so. But he carried with him the sound understanding that his friendship would not be wasted on those who didn’t deserve it. He would wait for the right people, the right person. He then told me how that person never came, how the people around his bed did nothing but frighten and discourage him. They poked and prodded and dimmed the lights. They killed his ambition for friendship. They lowered him in the ground. I can’t help but think that I’m the one he trusts, the one he could befriend. His silence tells me so.

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Dear, John

He remembered the day, the year. If memory served, the tide would be its highest in twenty five years. The coastal winds swept in from the west, skimming across the surface of the puddled pier. The weed-covered walls of the surrounding cliffs bobbed as the gentle waves pushed in and out, slipping under the dinghies tied to harbor. His home rested atop a hill near the water. A quaint, thatched bungalow, it stood facing the water. Gazing out the window towards the scene below, he held the letter as the sun sank beneath the Atlantic. The temperature dipped and the light waned. He touched the match to the wick, placing the candle on his bedside table. The ink of the aged, yellowing letter cast shadows across the paper as it rested near the flame. Moving from room to room, he tidied and polished his belongings. He placed his folded clothes in a traveling suitcase, closing the latches as he finished. Leaving it behind, he locked the front door as he stepped into the night. Gravel crunched and shifted, long blades of grass shuffled and brushed in the sea breeze. The moon hung above the gorge, speckled and spotted. He stepped over the rocks, around the boulders, through the sloping plains, gracefully floating through the clarity of night. He crossed onto the pier, splashing through the water brought in by the tide. Hovering over the ebb and flow of a small boat, he untied its tether and carefully stepped in. Sitting on the plank as the boat drifted towards the moonlight, he looked upward towards his house, remembered the day, remembered the year, and laid himself to rest.