I’m writing to you from the desk of my forced isolation. Everything around me is glass and scattered junk, but if I don’t write to you who will I write to? There is no one else here. And in fact you are here because I have wanted to write to you for too long. Years it seems that thought and thinking have wasted themselves on the recesses of my floor. And years more before you ever ventured your two eyes in my direction. It is not romantic if all this thinking has consequence. So, perhaps, I have learned—only by mistake—that all of my actions have consequence and the weight of tomorrow—never yet felt today—approaches the moment of its entrance with a numinous hesitation, a moment like a pause in time; the only moment, really, when time itself is felt, not in its passing but in its presence, like a figure in a room, hovering close to the entrance but not yet in the space. This moment, here at my desk, has only the consequence of your perusal. How awkward my confessions are tonight, hiding even while I speak.
And you, who do not yet know the height you possess, leer at me from every corner of my mind. And you, who I love and who I hate, stand silently in judgment of me, no matter your actual positioning. Isn’t it funny then that I would beg of you to make me real? And strange how the world turns in upon itself the moment we realize there are others in the room, watching us as closely as we watch them.
I do not know why I am writing to you tonight, only that I have wanted to for so long. And if tonight you might hear all these long years of thinking I’ll be glad for it, as I always was alone, and this public writing adds emphasis to my space: making something for me that I cannot make in solitude.