As the days shorten, and the ephemeral alpine glow strikes the peaks that surround my mountain home, I spend sorrowful nights like Sherlock. Seen from outside, if any should be peering through the frosted windows, as a slouched silhouette playing melancholy notes upon his violin.
But unlike the reclusive detective, who sought in solitude during the night insights into crimes, in the absence of company I put thoughts to paper in search of understanding matters of the heart.
When I write like this, striving to be earnest with my feelings, and it falls upon deaf ears again and again, I find myself longing for an ancient time when language was valued. When men were noble, and women were kind. When emotion, and expression, were not feared, but prized.
And I begin to consider that perhaps happy endings are now solely reserved for fiction. Not because we lost something fundamental along the way, but because, with newfound freedoms, we chose willfully to disregard the basic kindnesses to one another.
Men doomed women with apathy, and women became cold to men. And caught between it all, good men descended into self loathing, and good women into tears.
And I begin to realize that letters such as these, written with arms open to affection, are not addressed to a real woman, but to a ghost. A specter of the past. A phantom long buried beneath the earth, living only in my wildest imagination.
And those modern Sirens that could receive such communication today instead lure me to rake my heart upon their shoals, until all that remains of this ship are jagged timbers, torn sinew, and crushed bone. .
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