Day 03

I remember writing this a few months ago during a few sleepless night or so. Day 03 was originally going to be—and very well may still be—a series of fictional telegrams sent from a man at sea to his wife, whom he left ashore. How he managed to do such a task is beyond even me. I haven't read it since. While it's not great, I imagine it to be tolerable. I will save my greater self for a later occasion.

Day 03:

And here my boat rests in monotony as the sea laps at its withering figure. She has seen better days, and I hold only myself accountable as her ventures know only that of failure due in part to my foolishness in believing in my own abilities. Already, I find hope to be in short supply. Nevertheless to abandon what is left would surely announce defeat and this night is too benevolent to claim me as her victim. There, out my quarter’s window, across and again, above the horizon, hangs a crescent of impervious magnificence. I should wish to know what it finds as humorous as I’ve not a reason to be smiling, but I shall not contest in the notion of its greater knowledge.

The depth of these waters does leave one nothing, but the romantic desire to measure his own. Below is the result of such a sea as these:

I would imagine in examination of one’s self, one must first begin with a concise representation of what he holds as truth—not what has been claimed as true or even proven as true, but what he himself has discovered as true, his truth. Subsequently one must doubt those truths with alacrity and vigor if he should wish to ascertain his truths to their finite, metaphysical degree. Only then will he know the weight of himself. In sparing you the details (and my searching for words) to this developing philosophy, for now, I shall only mention passion as my truth.

I trust you are sleeping since my last telegram that I can only assume has found you by now, but this is mere wishful thinking on my behalf and perhaps you’ve not cared to read upon its page as to deny the extent of my leave. If that may be, here is me hoping the fate of this document a different one.

My love, you must understand: Nothing is your fault. When my heart so wishes to hear you calling, the amorous warmth of memory will guide me over this bitter sea and land my feet upon the shore. My heart hears only that which it cannot find, for it has lost itself. It is somewhere out here, waiting for me. And, my love, you must understand that I will find it.