Three ~ Dreary

My dear H-----,

       It would be raining.

       I have strength enough to keep the stuff from touching me, of course, but no longer can I shut it all back up in the heavens, where it should be of better use, perhaps wiping the simpering selfless smiles from Their faces.

       But this rain... it dulls the sunlight which so often pains my darkened eyes, but it is without the clarity and fullness of night. Whether or not it actually touches this fragile flesh, it seems to have an adverse affect on the body - I find myself strangely without energy, sapped of will, even as many of the silly besotted creatures walking the water-laden streets. The state of their bodies so dictates the state of their souls to such a humourous degree! And then there are those who take a perverse delight in the dampening of skin and spirit, reveling in the shades of melancholy which seep within. Such ridiculous things; had I the ill fate to have been Created as one, I should have killed myself the moment I learned how.

       Had one to choose a single colour for this dreary world, grey would clearly be one's choice: A pitiful half-way between white and black, a tentative ground between Hell and Heaven. Muddling along, floundering amidst the tides of ever-shifting morality and judgment, these creatures as much animal as spirit exist in a realm neither one solid place or the other.

       Man tries to use elements of his existence to prove that of a good and caring God, but I see only proof of His fallibility, Creating such faulty beings.

       Such a worthless thing this day aspires to be! I am glad I ordered new drapes - such a deep, thick burgundy, as a rich wine tempered by time, drawing closed a curtain between the cold dull world and the warmth of self. The grey clouds of uncertainty are left to the eternally confused creatures they compliment. They can keep this world, we have made our own.

Two ~ Prose

Dear M-----,

       This brings back such memories! Sitting down with pen and paper, an address book and book of stamps... But it's fitting, I suppose, this house is far older than the Internet, and just has the right vibe for writing letters.

       I wonder how many have sat here, amidst the fading paint of these century-old walls, writing to an absent friend...

       Apologies in advance for all the bursts of writerly musings and pretentious prose you're going to wind up with. I've been trying to work on my writing again...and more than that, something in the air in this place carries me so far from the slang and casual phrases of everyday speech.

       This is going to do wonders for my already substandard socialization skills.

       If the light is good tomorrow, I promise to take photos of everything and I'll send you copies. Provided, of course, I can find someplace in this delightfully tiny town to get them developed. (And no sarcasm there - you know how much more at home I feel in the middle of nowhere. Cities have their allure, but... I could never stay long. And I'd get lost.) I know already I'm going to use so many rolls on the house alone. I'll try, for your sake, to take some standard shots of the house and rooms themselves. But within five minutes of being here, I spotted so many interesting corners and angles and colors of paint and gentle decay, all the beauty that Time lends a steadfast building.

       There are, admittedly, a few areas that concern me slightly - the dark spots on the bathroom ceiling, a few windowsills rotting through, the scrabbling sounds overhead when I poked into the garage... But overall, the place is very well kept. The owners are, in many ways, your stereotypical older couple who rent out a few rooms of their large old farmhouse to students. (That's the thing about clichés and stereotypes, they have to be true in at least some cases - how else could they have come into being?)

       Despite all I've told my parents and everyone else...I'm a little scared, being out here alone like this. I'm fine on my own, I've always been independent and a bit solitary, but... I'm not immune to loneliness. And I spent my summer vacation so close to such good friends. And I have no Internet access out here (at least not yet). My computer is very lonely, especially without you.

       But if people survived all those centuries on letters alone (and with mail carriers even more unreliable than ours - sorry, your letter got carried off by an Apache's arrow, our apologies), we can manage.

       I need to buy some nicer paper, I feel dreadful sending you ragged sheets of notebook paper.

       It's getting late, I have a bed still to make, and pajamas to find. I've been sitting on the bare mattress, the lone lamp already in the room sitting on the chilly wood floor in front of me, my shadow leering over my shoulder as I write...and I'm starting to wonder how many ghosts I've stolen this room from. Here's hoping they don't mind some company...