An Abundance of Nothingness

  My stylus taps upon the dual glow of a muted screen keypad. The emotion, no, romance of the act is not as satisfying. The act being the conveying of my thoughts. It would feel far better if you were reading the scribbles of my 1864 fountain pen from my leather bound diary. Yet you are there and here am I. Neither in the same space nor time. Thus compounding my abundance of nothingness.

  Reclined upon my leather sofa in darkness my world seems small enough to bare. Often such is not the case. More then I care for the world is far to vast, empty, opressing, thus: depressing. More memories then I wish to recall. More love unreturned. Kindness unappreciated. Romance ignored. However, presently life has brought me you. Or possibly you me. Regardless we are although not simultaneously together, in word and thought we are joined.

  Therefore I am grateful you have made my nothingness not as abundant. You must understand my life has be very solitary but not by self creation. In truth, some self creation yet without a desire for it to so be. While my solitude is for lack of a better descriptive, safe, it is not wanted. How much more I would rather have you sitting with me to inspire my thoughts and share in my creations. This acknowledged, and if you so happen to discover these few words, would you, my dearest, join me. I ask nothing more than a moment. A brief glimpse of happiness. Only to use to feed my soul when the nothingness is great.

  Have I again crossed the comfortable boundaries of nondisclosure by sharing briefly a taste of what pounds inside my mind? If so let it stand. May it taste sweet, smell fragrant, warm your soul. If not cast all from you and forgive the transgression. Do so with singular request. Leave a word of lie or truth. Either I will read as sincere. Express to me the desire I desire. Feed me one tiny morsel of passion to blanket me as darkness falls.

Most Hopefully,


( I write this directed at no one and everyone. Share with me. Find comfort beside me. )