I failed, the fundamental human elements, absent from my design, I’m incapable of anything beyond a lone moon, a singular howl, raised in a hot cloud of breath at the frozen absence…I believe in the beauty of worlds spinning their tales about me…treetops in murmuration, lakes in ripple, the forest floor formulated of chemical and philosophical combustion…I fall in a love of sorts, with the simple interactions I witness between others…hands that graze or take hold of a shoulder, smiles that bloom with laughter, secreted glances and the commonplace dance between strangers…and yet, I disconnect, I disengage, I see no feasible way, to mortal my existence, when I can traverse the labyrinthine life, as a linear momentum of solitude, of a war I eternally fight and keep away from others, so as not to tarnish their shine…I failed, in my youth, at an opportunity of pure selfishness…I gave my single, God-given prayer to another less fortunate, who wept for comfort, acceptance, unity and love…and I opted to take up a pen instead, writing daily letters to an unknown entity, knowing that they’d accumulate in a drawer, a lifetime of unread, unanswered letters, each addressed identically, in the off chance, in the hope, that if we ever crossed paths…desirably in life, most plausible after death…there’d be proof that I existed, a quiet, solitary force, who trusted in the faith of an enigma, traversing the very same reality…

E.A. O'Connell. November 2018