The unlikelihood of my rescue grows more evident with each passing day. Rather than note my despair, I would like these words, which possibly will be my last, to address ideas that the solitude has brought to the pulsing forefront of my mind. The relentless pounding of each night being brought of course not by the lack of nutrition or cruel elements, but rather by a loss of jovial company and the instantaneous explosion of the heart that I remember a caress to be.
It is strange what passes before you in the apparent end of days. The solitude I think does nothing to alter the scenery, but rather amplifies it to deafening levels. As the sun rises so does it set. I will not speak of the nights, as one can infer from personal experience with the dark what my nights here might entail. Ah, but there are indeed sunsets, each bringing an intense pang of reflection most commonly in the form of an old lover. They are mysterious things, these spirits who seem to enter and leave as if some divine will has guided them. More mysterious still as they reveal that you too are as infinite. This cosmic dance in which so many are hell bent on finding the being that’s going to fix it. It is within this art that I believe most of my time was spent, as there was so much in need of fixing. What’s greater than is the amount of shear passion that seems to thrust its way out of this quest that is so biological in nature.
But where we’re we… ah yes. An autumn night with crimson leaves falling. This is where I find myself often. And she is as beautiful as time itself. What a cruel gift it is, the ability to recall a time with such vividness while being ten thousand miles from the truth of it. Though there she is still, on an autumn night with the crimson leaves falling. I’m locked now in her everything. There is a feeling like before but indescribable in the ways it forces its novelty into me. There is poetry spinning through my head as if the words themselves think they might dictate to me what in the hell is going on. My fractured soul bursts as we embrace there in a cold silence upon the river. I’m often made saddest at the thought of never seeing a river again, as if it might hold the piece that has for years been missing.
There is, here on the island, a high cliff that I climb to think. There is, without doubt, too much time to think these days. There was a time when I was obsessed with passing only in a blaze that others would find enviable. At times this too guided me. To sail the world. To conquer both land and sea. They were foolish pursuits of course, though at the time they held what I felt to be vigor that I could not grasp. Ah, after such a life what a hilarious fate I’ve been dealt! Fading away in the grandest way that no one will know. After all, is it not the primordial thirst of man to be stranded with nothing but the workings of his own hands? To fatten his fingers with lashings and meat stolen from the earth itself? I must admit there is a certain strength that emanates from me now that never did before. And it is on this precipice that I now glow for all to see. Look now, my friends! I have done it! I’ve been the hermit! And in it I’ve found both despair and ingenuity. It is not the engineer who is the beast of creativity but rather his sibling the artist, who from the greatest of shambles makes the most magnificent canals.
There is more to say, but it would be more of the same. In the end I find joy in my simplicity and find solace in in the thought of ghosts. Perhaps one day I’ll be allowed to return to each of my moment in their infinity and further observe and feel them. I’ve had much time to think of my own heavens.
So that is it. If someone is to find these words, please return a one Mark Truffo to fresh water. That is my final wish. Thank you and god bless.
– Mark Truffo