It’s with a broken heart, and a frail mind that I write to you. I spend days on the island contemplating the existence of man. I tread long, and tiring paths leading to what I hope to be is redemption. Many of my letters are scattered here, I watch as the grass sways in the ocean breeze, taking my letters and delivering them to the sea.
I contemplate life, read the scrawls splattered on the walls. Who made these, why was it written? My life torn apart. I grow old Esther, old like this island that I’m forced to spend my last days on. Maybe it’s punishment.
Or maybe I’m already dead, exiled to my last thoughts as a being. The path I travel on is split in many ways. Do I go left, or right? Or does it not even matter? Maybe I will never find the answers, maybe I will understand. While this mystery may never have a solution, I am glad to at least experience it.
The accident left crevasses into my mind and out from the cracks sprawl the nightmares of a thousand demons. He wasn’t drunk. He was not drunk.
But as long as I remember you, my dear Esther, then you are still alive to me.
And one day, I will float to the sea.