Stranded

Everyone likes to think that their problems outrank all else. But that is not what I do. I do not complain: I agonize. About when they will find me; about if they will find me. Not everyday does one sit alone planning his escape into the world. It might be different if people were here. But there is no one. Over the years I have lost the urgency to speak aloud; for there is no one to hear me. Scrawling letters to no one, on cardboard long forgotten about, with the blood of my own finger, is the only way left available to let my voice be heard.

Day after dark, sunny day I wait. For my chance to be saved; chance to be remembered; chance to be loved. The searching has long been called off. I know this. And what little hope there was, there is no more. What they must be doing. What problems they must have to be forced into retreat. My contact with the outside world ceased years ago. No doubt they believe me dead; or wish me it. Either way, here I am. Alone.

Slowly, my appearance has become less and less important. There is no mirror in this hell, so my face is just another unrecognizable feature I have since composed. Not that it matters. There is no person in my life who would have the chance to see me, let alone recognize. Even if they wished to do so. And there is only one who I wish she would: Miss Elizabeth Downing. It has been months, years, since I have last seen her face, since I have heard her voice, since I have felt her presence, since she has loved me. She has moved on, wishing for a death to overtake me. Why wait for a hope that hopes not in return?

There is much to do here. The beaches, the wildlife, the hills, they all offer, in fact they beg, to be enjoyed. But I do not have the heart. My heart has long been missing. No. That is not true. I know exactly where my heart is. Still hoping, still searching, still straining for a sign from her. All I have left of her: a letter. The letter she left for me. The last communication between us. The paper, now yellow; the print, now faded; the hurt, now stronger; the sorrow, now forever. I can scarcely read this gift of departure, whether for the condition of its being or for the hope its contents will have no meaning. But I know all it has to say, written down in my mind, engraved into my soul, imprinted on my would-be heart:

Morning, Michael. I have no desire to write this, but I must. Hope is no longer enough for me. I know how you care for me and the way in which you love me. But that is no longer enough for me. There is not love enough in this pathetic planet to save me now. Life is no longer enough for me. I love you, but that does not hold me here. You are no longer enough for me. Goodbye, Michael, goodbye.

So you see, what hope is there left for me? The only love I’ve known, the only relationship I’ve experienced, gone. Forever, gone. Only one desire left, that is what’s driving me: love. For what, I know not. For whom, I know not. For why, I know not. But it does not matter. I feel love. And that is enough for me.

Now, back to my life: begging on the street corners of Philadelphia. Waiting. Searching. Hoping.