I am redirecting you away from my miserable straying and my terrible, no good day where I helped no one but myself and fogged over the glass of my life with ceaseless huffing over the burdens of remaining upright and instead, going to give you a bit of something completely different.
It’s hammer time.
I wrote a letter to you a while back, and you have yet to respond. I imagine that it is quite possible that you did not receive my letter nor its intimations of total and complete love, affection, and blistering desire as I didn’t send it to your home by post. I didn’t drop it in an email and let the tubes of the internet guide it to your phone. I didn’t roll it up and train a raven to track you to the ends of the earth and caw and drop my missive in your open palm while you slept at your desk, enraptured by a vivid dream. Instead, my darling one, I gave it to this place. This repository of word and hope. This hope chest, near cracked and split by all manner of device to get at the heart within. We mine and mine, and drill and drill, and they tell us there must be one in there, that everyone has a heart and I needn’t worry, they’ll find it. And in the meantime, I keep the hope there to brace up the walls. So every wall needs papering and I write again, thinking that surely you will hear of the excavation and wander by, perhaps by sheer curiousity and that you will see a girl wandering these same moors and plains of purpose and emptiness. That because you are like-minded, you will cry out like a raven caws without being bidden, and I will hear the cry, Eureka, and light will flood these bones and guide these workers back home. To their own wives and husbands who will wrap them in warm blankets and make epsom salt baths for their feet and rub the frostbite away.
I have not made the journey easy. I have not made the way clear. I have not made a welcoming at all. And yet, I bid you find me. I bid you do this work that try as I might, I cannot, sneak away into the woods and master in my hermitage. I cannot make merry by the gusts of wind, the night noises, the glow of this hot box without papering another wall without the thought of your presence being so much better than your absence. That having you would make quite the change from missing you.
I expect that having missed my first letter thusly, there can be little reason to believe that you will come across this one and like a tuning fork struck within, know it as addressed to you. But I write from within the hope chest and this is what I do. I call and caw and do my best to listen for that low e.