Month: March 2014

The 12th of April 1983 – Portland, Oregon

(found by the place, but not exactly the place, where it was meant to be)

Dear Beverly,

Thank you for writing. I’m glad to hear that you are well. I’m glad to hear that the kids are well, too. It sounds like things are going alright with you. That’s alright. That’s great.

I’m good, you know? It’s like, I’m good. I know it, too. I’m good, but that’s just it. I’m good.

But then, everything might go wrong one day. That’s there too, that everything might go completely and totally wrong. But I’m good, at least today, at least now. I’m good, and everything might go wrong one day. At least I know that day isn’t today. That time isn’t right now. So I’m good.

Everything’s always different, though. I don’t understand that. And nothing ever seems to actually change. I don’t understand that either. But still, I’m good. Don’t worry about that. I don’t worry about anything like that, anything that turns different without ever changing. I don’t worry about that. I’m good.

I get these itches sometimes, though. I get these itches, but the doctor says there’s no rash. But still, I itch and itch and it itches tremendously. It itches and itches like I’m just in the wrong skin, not that it fits me too tight or too loose, just that it’s the wrong skin.

I scratch at it, you know, like a werewolf, sometimes. I feel like tearing it off, just tearing it straight off my body to see what’s underneath there. Maybe I’m really a werewolf, maybe underneath all of this, I’m just a werewolf and all I have to do is claw off all this skin, you know? If I could tear it all off, and I’m a werewolf, then that’s just what I’d be. Maybe things would change finally, just once and for all change. No longer just be different, but actually change.

Dear Beverly, just don’t worry about it. I’m good. I’m good, maybe just a little tired. The doctor says not to worry about the itch. He says there’s no rash or anything to be worried about, so just don’t worry about it. I don’t worry about it. I’m good.

I’m good.

Something is going to change, though. I’m sure. And everything is going to go wrong one day. I’m sure of that, too.

I’m good, though.

It was nice to hear from you, Beverly.

I’m good.

Peter

The 9th of February 1974 – Shenandoah, Pennsylvania

(found buried in a spinster’s sock drawer; amongst a collection kept in a folder which was labeled “If I Had The Courage”)

George, oh George, oh George,

They want me to stop, George, they do. I want me to stop George, really, I do.

It doesn’t make sense to me anymore. That’s the whole thing. That’s the confusion of it all. They keep saying I’m infatuated. They keep saying it’s a crush, an obsession, like I’m a little six year old.

Immature infatuation. That’s what they call it, George. But it can’t be. It just can’t.

But, see George, they make it so insignificant. But if it’s so insignificant, then why does it seem so significant to me?

Really, George, I wish it were that easy. I really just wish it were so simple. I wish it were just a little bubble in my gut, a little tumor of this infatuation, this growing, crying, throbbing mess. I wish it were there because, if it were, I’d go into my kitchen, and I’d grab a knife. I’d cut it right out of me, George, I really would. I’d cut it right out of me and go deep into the woods just to bury it. I’d bury it so that nobody else ever has to deal with it too. I would, George. I’d cut it right out of me. It’d be so much easier.

That first time you came into the room, George, just let me tell you what happened. That first time, you drained my whole world of color. You just sucked out all the light. George, when you walked into that room, everything just went straight to black and white, and the sound got all tinny and muffled like an old-time movie. George, George, there was one thing that wasn’t dull and grey left in that room. There was one thing that was bright and vibrant, George. That thing was you. That’s what it’s like, George. That’s what it was like, at least.

I’m sick, George. I’m sick for you. I’m sick, and I’m wounded, and I’ve got this knife jabbed into my belly, and I’ve got this tumor, and I’m about to vomit all the time. George, I’m just sorry, that’s all.

I’m just sorry. I’m sorry if I bothered you, or if I followed you too close or if I looked at you too much from down the supermarket aisle or anything at all. I’m just sorry. And, George, I’m just sorry that I ever had to meet you.

That’s it, George. That’s it.

Forever,

Donna

The 16th of December 1953 – Cornish, New Hampshire

(found at the foot of a long, sloping, gravel driveway)

Why, Margaret?
You always ask me why I do this, why I sit here and “torture” (your words, never mine) myself this way.

I’ll tell you why. See, Margaret, this stuff is coming out no matter what. I feel it inside me, this bubbling, this curdling, this turbulent slop, these thoughts and these ideas. They’re in there, and they’re coming out no matter what.

I feel it just beneath my skin. It’s scurrying around and bouncing off my insides. When I look for it, I can almost see it, and if other people can see it too, well then, that’s why they keep their distance, I guess.

And it’s just bound to come out, Margaret. It’s just going to. Sometimes I can control it. I force a little belch and a little puff of it, like cigarette smoke, floats away from me and gets trapped in my notebook. Sometimes there’s nothing I can do to stop it, and the whole lot of it just runs out of my mouth like a river and paints paper black with ink.

And then, sometimes, I just have to get it out of me. Sometimes I stand over my typewriter and take a penknife in my hand. I trace a smile across my stomach and let that coagulated goop drain out and splatter over my desk and splash over the keys of my typewriter and fill the page with these thoughts, these ideas.

And it does hurt, a little, just at first. It hurts just to get started, but then it all starts flowing out of me, and I can relax just the slightest bit. And it flows and flows, and I feel such relief, relief compounded by the greatest, most glorious bout of exhaustion a man could feel, I think. When it’s all finished, I’m completely drained, Margaret, of thoughts, of energy, of ideas, of pretense. Then I slump my shoulders for a minute.

And when the ink has dried on all of these pages, there is one last thing to do, one last “torturous” (your words, never mine) thing to do. I send them off, away into the world, into the dark night. I send them off, and I hope they bring something back to me, as I recover, as more thoughts come back, as the stuff inside me starts to bubble and roil. Maybe it’ll be a genuine response. Maybe it’ll just be an echo of my own wailing, but hopefully it’ll bring something back.

So, Margaret, that is why.

Thoughtfully,

Jerome

 

Find more responses to this week’s Writing Challenge here:

  1. Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | The WordPress C(h)ronicle
  2. Writing Challenge: Why Do I Write? | Miss Diaries
  3. Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | Awl and Scribe
  4. This is Why I Write | Musings | WANGSGARD
  5. Writerly Life | melissuhhsmiles
  6. Writerly Reflections | emilycharlotteould
  7. Keep On Writing, Everyone | Never Stationary
  8. Weekly Photo Challenge: Reflection | Blessings through raindrops…
  9. Never at a Loss for Words | The Ravenously Disappearing Woman
  10. Why I Write | Fish Of Gold
  11. Negativity Insults My Intelligence | Bumblepuppies
  12. Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | samallen230
  13. The Beginning | snapshotsofawanderingheart
  14. A Challenge Followed by a Challenge | Kami’s Beautiful Morning
  15. Origin Story: Why I Write | Lead us from the Unreal to the Real
  16. Why I Write | Lead us from the Unreal to the Real
  17. Dreaming About My Dream Job | Musings | WANGSGARD
  18. Where it All Began | Passionate Dreaming
  19. My Lifeline | Artfully Aspiring
  20. Ichabod Crane in a 1960s straight legged suite | The Seminary of Praying Mantis
  21. Instant Writer: Just Add Library | Charron’s Chatter
  22. (DP Challenge) Life’s Pit Stops: Journal of Becoming a Writer | Jenkins Writings
  23. dear sir or madame would you read my book? | eastelmhurst.a.go.go
  24. Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | siobhanmcnamara
  25. Weekly Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | imagination
  26. Weekly Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | Reflections and Nightmares- Irene A Waters (writer and memoirist)
  27. Stuck In A Blogging Rut | Eclecticfemale’s Blog
  28. Weekly Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | Morrighan’s Muse
  29. Writing Challenge — Writerly Refections |
  30. Reflection on reading | Lisa’s Kansa Muse
  31. DP challenge: Writerly Reflections. | A cup of noodle soup
  32. My Origin Story | Simply Miko
  33. Reponse to- Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | really, villie?
  34. “We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.” —Ernest Hemingway | Chronicles of Illusions
  35. How The Snot People Paved The Way For My Life As a Writer | momaste
  36. Writing Growing Up | Among the Whispers
  37. Writing Challenge: How I became a writer | writingtutortips
  38. Feet in my Shoes, Mary I Am | Mary J Melange
  39. Why write? | fifty5words
  40. Write What You Know | 365 Days of Thank You
  41. My Supergeek Superpower | Abstractions of Life
  42. A Moose and Three Giraffes | Master of Something I’m Yet To Discover
  43. writing is the pits | Musings of a Random Mind
  44. Writerly Reflections | Icezine
  45. writing challenge: reflections | Phylor’s Blog
  46. Falling in Love | Jody Lynne
  47. The Librarian, the Library and the Words | jen groeber: mama art
  48. Why Writers Write | jsleflore
  49. Writerly Reflections | Alexia Jones
  50. Why I Write… | Day to Embrace Change
  51. Writing Sneaks Up, Won’t Go Away | abundance in the boondocks
  52. Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | nagwak25
  53. Origins | the little things in life
  54. Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | xin’s blog
  55. WRITING CHALLENGE: WRITERLY REFLECTIONS | All I Need Is Pink!
  56. It’s all about the story | Not famous for anything
  57. Bedtime Stories: The Cat Who Wore a Pot On Her Head.” | Destino
  58. Writerly Reflection | Thinking Languages!
  59. writing off the wall | litadoolan
  60. Writerly Reflections: Discovering Poetry | Indigoat Footnote
  61. My Journey As A Writer | The Flibberatic Skreebles
  62. A tale of origins and embarrassing family secrets! | Melissa Barker-Simpson
  63. The day Agatha became my friend | Hope* the happy hugger
  64. Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | Rose Red Stories
  65. Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections, rather my first try for this, how I started writing or what made me start in the first place | seikaiha’s blah-blah-blah
  66. I am and I am not | Attempted Human Relations and Self
  67. How Did I Get Here? | the intrinsickness
  68. Throw Back The Pen | Ako Si Ehm Blog
  69. Writerly Reflections | A Life with Limits
  70. “The miseducation of Nicholas Christian: Origin Story” | The Bohemian Rock Star’s “Untitled Project”
  71. A Reader’s Developement | Musings of a Soul Eclectic
  72. Adam Ickes | Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections
  73. A come-back post with Writerly Reflections | TALES OF MY JOURNEYS ACROSS OCEANS
  74. Putting Words on Paper in a Particular Order | Fun with Depression
  75. The Writer With Crayons and Oil Pastels | Irish Noble King
  76. Love of Writing | My Adventures In Marriage
  77. Am I a Writer? | Wine goes best with a good book
  78. Weekly Writing Challenge: Writerly Reflections | SIM | ANTICS
  79. Writing, creating, breathing… | Scent of Rina
  80. Gunga Din and me | The Sapient Chronicles
  81. My 8th Grade Work Is Better Than Any Professional Work I’ve Read | Sammi Talk
  82. My need to write? I blame my mother. | christineespeer
  83. Writing Challenge: I Write Because I was Born into a World of Words | theempathyqueen
  84. A Puzzle, Piece By Piece | Polymathically
  85. Writing Process Blog Tour: Little Victories | Be Less Amazing
  86. Barsoom | luvsiesous
  87. A writer of tales | Thin spiral notebook
  88. It all started with a fish! | 1,000 Photos of my Life
  89. My Sister and The Famous Five – Evelyne Holingue
  90. Second, Third, Fourth, Fifth….Chances | Searching for Substance
  91. Urban Bookworm, Secret Wordsmith | Laughing Through Life
  92. Writing Challenge: Reflections | The Day After
  93. How I Got My Superpowers | The Adventures of Cat Madigan
  94. DPChallenge: What got me started | xzxJennaxzx
  95. Writerly Reflections | Bako Heat
  96. When the Verbal and Visual Unite, an Expat Writer is Reborn | reinventing the event horizon
  97. I write because I MUST: Weekly Writing Challenge | ALIEN AURA’S BLOG: IT’LL BLOW YOUR MIND!
  98. Why I Write | Huckleberry Moments
  99. Resurrection | In So Many Words
  100. It’s Kind of a Long Story | Corned Beef Hashtag

 

The 13th of July 1992 – Leadville, Colorado

(found taped to the window of a cable car)

Hello Benny,

I’ve been sliding for a while now. Sliding is how I’d put it, not slipping or skiing, just sliding.

I had made it to the peak of this mountain. I made it all the way to the top of it. I stood there, and I looked at the sun and the clouds. They were above me, like always, but they seemed to be so much closer, almost within reach. I stood on a little plateau and I looked over what was below me. I saw the town and the people and the cars, and I saw all those places where I had stood, those places where I had stopped and looked up at this exact peak.

I felt something, up there on the peak. It was the strangest sensation of being completely alone, while being completely surrounded by people. I felt unique and special and still lost in a crowd. I kept rubbing my hand because I felt someone next to me clutching at it, gripping it tight. I swear there was a woman next to me grabbing at my hand and rubbing my shoulder. But whenever I looked, the place was empty. All that was there was the mountain breeze and a little rodent rustling in the bushes.

There I was, unique and special and at the top, but feeling incredibly lost. There I was, with someone next to me and grabbing for my hand, but standing completely alone.

I took a step forward, and I hopped down from that little plateau I was standing on. I landed flat on my butt, and I bounced for a few feet. Then I settled onto the dirt and slid. I slid and slid, sometimes lying flat with stones and gravel digging into my back. I slid and slid, sometimes rolled onto my stomach and clawing desperately with my fingers to keep my place. But I slid and slid. Still I slid and slid.

So I ended up here again, at the base of the mountain. It’s back where I started, I guess, except now I know that reaching such a height is possible. It’s possible, but it’s difficult, and it’s scary, and I’m not sure if it’s worth it. I think I might be better off with the people and the town and their flat and grassy fields. I think I might be better off down here and well out of arm’s reach of the sun and the clouds.

But I really want to get back up on that peak again.

I think I have to.

See you soon,

Thomas

The 21st of August 1941 – Germantown, Maryland

(found in a dusty trunk in a dusty attic, tucked beneath this letter)

Mama, dear,

I don’t know what the fuss is about. I’d really wish you would just calm down, Mama, please.

This isn’t rushed, and this isn’t crazy, not at all. It makes perfect sense to me.

You keep asking me what it is about him, a lot of people have, and all those questions make a lot of sense.

See, I couldn’t say easily whenever you or anyone else asked. I don’t think I can even say it now, but I can tell you this.

For everyone that I’ve ever met, I’ve found some little annoyance about them within the first five minutes of the first conversation. It’s usually nothing all that important, nothing that just makes me absolutely hate the person. It’s just the simple realization that the two of us are incongruous human beings and our relationship will be limited somehow, whatever it was destined to be. It’s just the awareness on my part that there’s this little lace veil shimmering between us and keeping us apart.

But not with James, Mama. Not with James at all. With him, everything was just instantaneous. The attraction was there from the start, and it was just attraction. It was something magnetic, nothing sexual or romantic, even. It was just the feeling that every time I saw this person I would end up talking to him until them until the sun went down and came back up and went back down again. It was the awareness that, for as long as I lived, I’d care about this person, this friend.

It’s a weird feeling to have, mama, even today. It’s a weird feeling to have because it’s coupled with this voice in the back of my head whispering that it’s all just wrong. But, Mama, it was an especially weird feeling to have when staring at the back of a little boy’s head in junior high.

But I trust the feeling, Mama.

I do worry sometimes about what it would have felt like, to have felt all of this and not even get a chance to experience it. What if that door had slammed right in my face instead of letting me through to a seat at the table?

That’s what I worry about, Mama. That’s what really gives me the shivers. But, now Mama, that didn’t happen.

So I’d really wish you would just calm down.

Love,

Linda

The 7th of June 1983 – Laurel, Delaware

(found on Willow Street, the part that runs over Records Pond Dam)

Let me tell you where you’re going wrong, Tommy.

Let me tell you where they’re all going wrong.

We’re talking about labels, Tommy, names. The issue, the issue I have, is that often times these things are not representative of what they are stuck to. Oh, no. See, they’re projections of what we want those things to be.

A chair is a chair, Tommy, I get that. That’s simple. A chair is a chair, and all it can be is a chair. It’s just blocks of wood. It’s just nails and glue. A chair. Good job.

But, see, when we talk about people, when we talk about human beings, we aren’t talking about things or objects no more. We aren’t talking about chairs.

We’re talking about human beings, and there’s some ethereal quality to that, to us. There’s something that isn’t just in a name or a label, no matter how much glue we use, no matter how many nails we hammer through it.

But that’s too complicated. Tommy, for everyone else that’s just too much. We need handles for things, right? We need things to grab on to so we can carry that stuff around, so that we can fit it nice and neat in our pocket.

And that’s where we go wrong. And that’s where we miss out.

I don’t understand it, but there are these people that just roll themselves around in these words like they’re an ice cream cone getting doused in rainbow sprinkles. They tell you they’re a contractor and a horseback rider and a yoga aficionado and an amateur chef. They say all that as if it means a damn, as if it’s who they are, as if they aren’t just wrapping themselves in a warm blanket to protect themselves from the cold nothingness of the night.

I met a guy, he said he was a lawyer. I looked at him funny. I had asked him who he was, and he said he was Brad, and he said he was a lawyer. See that was all he said, and I couldn’t believe it. Two words encompass the totality of your existence? And I just sat there, wondering how much of him is lawyer and how much of him is just acting like how he thinks a lawyer is supposed to act.

That is the danger of labels. That is the danger of names. When we apply them, to ourselves or others, we change who we are. Tommy, we aren’t lawyers or doctors, no. We are human beings with conceptions of what it is to be a lawyer or a doctor, and so we mold ourselves and change ourselves and limit ourselves to become a lawyer, to become a doctor – at least what we think those things should be.

No, see, Tommy, it’s more complicated than that. Life’s more complicated than that. To be who you are is much more complicated than that, so complicated that all the names and all the labels are just inconsequential. There’s something more. Tommy, there’s always something more. Don’t insist on anything, don’t let others insist for you, and don’t take anything for yourself because there’s always something more, more than just a name.

Keep your head up,

Jones

Check out other responses to the “Names” Weekly Challenge here:

  1. Weekly Writing Challege: Power of Names | Our Baby Dreams
  2. Weekly Writing Challege: Power of Names | The WordPress C(h)ronicle
  3. What’s in a name | Love your dog
  4. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names | Under the Monkey Tree
  5. More Than A Name | snapshotsofawanderingheart
  6. Weekly Writing Challege: Power of Names | ManicMedic
  7. Melissa|The Meaning | melissuhhsmiles
  8. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names | B.Kaotic
  9. Faithfully Named | It’s a wonderful F’N life
  10. The Power of a Name | Short & Sharp
  11. A Rose by Any Other Name… | Artfully Aspiring
  12. my name is larry | eastelmhurst.a.go.go
  13. Name Responsibily (Weekly Writing Challenge) | …Of Course, this Could All Go Horribly Awry
  14. Porkchops | I’m a Writer, Yes I Am
  15. What Is In A Name | Unload and Unwind
  16. What’s in a Name? | For Love of a Good Yarn
  17. Name. Name. Name. | …Properly Ridiculous…
  18. What’s in a Name? | Lead us from the Unreal to the Real
  19. The Power of Names | Jennifer Paige
  20. kurtosis | staying.cool
  21. From Russia: with Hope. | Abstractions of Life
  22. THE HASTY TRADITION | Hastywords
  23. Rice Insults My Intelligence | Bumblepuppies
  24. Just Call Me | ripplesblog
  25. Daily Prompt: What’s in a Name | The Cheese Whines
  26. Roles and Identities | Kingdom of Sharks
  27. Word Press Weekly Writing Challenge: the Power of Names | Phylor’s Blog
  28. The Power of a Name | Welcome, somthing drink?
  29. What’s in a Name? | Sam’s Online Journal
  30. What’s In A Name? | The Eclectic Poet
  31. The moniker of Monica | Minnesota Transplant
  32. NOT IN OUR NAME | Unload and Unwind
  33. Contrary, Bitter, Rebellious and Loved | Mary J Melange
  34. Purely Me | Scraps of Paper
  35. Weekly Writing Challege: Power of Names | Simply about Life
  36. A Few of My Favorite Things…. | Coffee Crumbs
  37. Names | Speaking Voiceless
  38. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names | lifebeinggirly
  39. Writing Prompt: The Power of Names | tamiesrealm
  40. On Names… | Tas’und’eash
  41. How Osama Bin Laden And My Parents Got Together And Complicated My Life | Babbleogue
  42. The Lame Name Shame Blame Game! | Once Upon Your Prime. . .
  43. “Found in Translation” | Cosmic Heroism
  44. STICKS AND STONES | SERENDIPITY
  45. The Daily Post Challenge – Power of Names | Wine goes best with a good book
  46. c.c.
  47. A rose by any other name… | A Bite for Sore Eyes
  48. The Wedding Paper: My name, your name, our name | The Bohemian Rock Star’s “Untitled Project”
  49. The Making of a Name | The Seeker’s Dungeon
  50. Daily Post Challenge – Power of Names | Smile at the Sky
  51. We, the Dragons, shall live, for all eternity! | Wired With Words
  52. Weekly writing challenge : Power of names | La chica de la burbuja
  53. the importance of a good Chinese name | 2SOJOURNERS
  54. Weekly Writing Challege: Power of Names – Friendsoulmate | WorldwideFriends
  55. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names | A mom’s blog
  56. What’s In A Name? | Finale to an Entrance
  57. Names, Names, Names | The Flibberatic Skreebles
  58. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names | Writing Canvas
  59. Weekly Writing Challenge : Bambang is My Name and I’m Proud of It… | bambangpriantono
  60. Weekly Writing Challenge: My name is… my name is… | In my world
  61. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names | siobhanmcnamara
  62. Namesakes | Not the Family Business!
  63. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power Of Names | imagination
  64. All Magic Comes with a Price | An Upturned Soul
  65. WWC: Yep, that’s my name. | Simple Heart Girl
  66. A Teacher’s View on Names | Avoiding Neverland
  67. Weekly writing challenge – Names | The Wandering Poet
  68. Sisters | The Sapient Chronicles
  69. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names (Rocky) | Basically Beyond Basic
  70. names | from dreams to plans
  71. Weekly Writing Challenge: Name | Get The Courage
  72. What’s in a Name? – Evelyne Holingue
  73. Weekly Writing Challenge: Names | Reflections and Nightmares- Irene A Waters (writer and memoirist)
  74. Who am I? | For Love, For Beauty, For Life
  75. Becoming Elexa Rose | Lexy’s Litblog
  76. Power of Names | joyandreassen
  77. What’s in a Name? | aliabbasali
  78. Giving Back the Name (DPchallenge: power of names) | Between Madness & Euphoria
  79. Labelled | fifty5words
  80. A rose by any other name | A picture is worth 1000 words
  81. My name is Duane (by J.D. Hager) | the intrinsickness
  82. zaphnathpaaneah
  83. How Do You Say Your Name? | Bits of Things
  84. Suicide no. 36: The Death of Gary Elshire | derekalanwilkinson
  85. Power of Names: Three Words, Eight Letters | Living in the Moment
  86. Nameless Wanderer | Within The Cypress Forest
  87. What’s in a Name | The Wonder of Yarrow House
  88. Power of Names | sothislife
  89. The Never Name | Response to Name Challenge | The Never Blog
  90. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names | Occasional Stuff
  91. The Many Names Of Cat Madigan | The Adventures of Cat Madigan
  92. Names and Fish Bowls | Shawn’s Open Journal
  93. of names, claims, and a little defiance | Anawnimiss
  94. Weekly writing challenge: power of names – Debbie | Deb’s world
  95. What’s in a Name? | jennsmidlifecrisis
  96. Weekly Writing Challenge: Names ~ My Little Dee Dee | The Day After
  97. my name is… | the hilarious pessimist
  98. By Any Other | Be Less Amazing
  99. Weekly Writing Challenge: Power of Names | Proverbs 31 Teen

The 6th of October 1981 – Idaho Falls, Idaho

(found rolled into a cylinder and stuffed into the exhaust pipe of a Ford F150)

To my Sonja:

I’ve done it, but just barely. I’ve finished it, but the whole thing came in just under the wire.

I have nothing to say for the moment, only to let you know that I have arrived, that I have made it. It’s wondrous to consider just how far I was able to go while just sitting in my study, at my desk, in front of a typewriter.

It feels terribly amazing. I feel like my head is being squeezed in a vise, and it’s starting to split and crack and ooze like a rotten melon. It aches, but barely. It aches, but like a thousand pound block of ice is resting against my forehead. The weight is crushing me, but the cool eases it just enough to make it all worthwhile.

This journey has left me weak, and I feel as if a part of me has been taken out of my being. But, somehow, I feel more than I once was, weakened and somehow strengthened by it.

I feel the fever of a great flu floating around me. It’s swallowed me and relaxed me and pushed me oh-so-gently down onto my bed.

I just want to lay down and rest my head on a pillow. I just want to sit in this moment, this feeling of emptiness and accomplishment, and relax. I know it will drift away – this cloud, this fog – but for the moment it does linger, so I will let it.

I’m sorry to be so brief, but this is all that is left at the moment.

Dearly,

Ernest

 

 

Other awesome submissions to the Daily Challenge: