Dear Kristin.

Does a hermit enwallow into his shell at hind sight of being prey? Or can his disposition become his determination to rise above?

I am alone; merely a hermit upon a destitute island of forgotten dreams, and a blundering history. Though fortunate I may be to have survived my capsizing; I am met with an endless void with nothing to filter it but my own presence. Moving along my sandy beach; watching the little hermits make their way back into channel; I have stumbled upon a cave. Stories that I have heard tell a strange fable of another hermit, like me. They say that a man named John Snow lost his entire ship and crew to a rogue wave. His boat tossed and turned with the tide, and then finally slammed against a rock wall. Drifting ashore with barely the clothes on his back, the hermit crawled his way inside the cavebut when he tried to escape its hold; it was blocked by the wreckage of his vessel.

Confined within the darkness for months without food, water, or light; John began to draw images on the caves walls with nothing but his own blood It takes a right man to handle the darkness. It can become your friend if you learn to cope with it. Or it can become your downfall if you should consume it... I am alone; wondering if I should even be writing this. Even if you did by some miracle receive this letter; what would you do? It could be many years before the ink upon this paper sees daylight again. But for now, they shall merely serve as my check for sanity.

With my deepest affection.
Arthor.

Dear Kristin.

I find myself restless within the shores of my own paradise. I count four hundred and eighty days since I first tasted the sand of its shores, and I wonder how I have ever survived this long. Is it by the grace of my God keeping me safe from harm? Or is the punishment that we all fear to come to pass? Am I really alive? Four hundred and eighty days since I have arrivedtwo thousand and seven days since I have last gotten to feel the warmth of your skin. I remember our last night vividly. Young, madly in love and destined for a wondrous future; I recall the sleek red dress that you wore. When the lights shinned upon your body, you began to glow like an angel which demanded the attention from all who had breath. I escorted you; hand in arm to our table and watched the others gaze upon us like royalty. It was glorious in a way, knowing that you were mine and nobody else could ever have you.

My time here as a hermit is taking its toll upon my sanity; I find it more and more difficult to transcribe my thoughts and messages to you. My consciousness battles my heart telling me that my attempts merely delay the inevitable. That I am writing to nothing but a memory, a memory that should have never come to pass.

With my deepest affection.
Arthor.

I found myself at an impasse. An old road cracked and shattered its way within the islands interior until it came to a fork. Right or left do I go; both sides equally damaged, both sides equally abandoned. My mind tells me that I may find my refuge to the left, but my heart tells me that my right shall be my savior--I took to the left.

The weeds brushed against my fragile body like nails upon wood. Chest high, barely able to see over them; a silhouette appeared to me along the road. It was faint to see from my point of stance; so onward I went to discover my light in the dark--my valley in the mountains.

But once I had reached my target with my new found strength and will; I backed away in terror. Before me was a car, an older model like the last I had ever drove. It's front right wheel was missing, it's red paint charred with burn marks and peeled from the rust like paper. It was exactly like when. I can't even write It still. Why did I not go right?

Dear Kristin.

The void is taking me. Emptiness is my calling upon this purgatory. I cannot remember the last time I slept. Was it two days ago? Or was it two weeks ago? My head throbs with pain; I see things that are not there. I sit in a pile of sandy grass where I though an abandoned house once stood proud and tall. Yet when I take a look around, I notice that nothing could have ever lived here, that is why we are in this travesty. The island has become a part of me, and I of it. My soul is its slave to wonder the shores of a forgotten paradise.

I want it to end, but yet my heart carries on. I long to hold you in my arms once more, and feel your heart BEAT again and again until they match.

I cannot do this anymore! Why Kristin, why did this have to happen!? Why can't I be with you, why could I not save you! I could not save you...

When our car crashed into that wall, the front right wheel came off and rolled ahead of us with haste. I was hurt and bleeding from my head, but you were laying still and unconscious from the blow. The smell of petrol filled the cabin; I saved myself by climbing out of my window. I rushed to your side and tried to pry the door open, but it was jammed and sealed by the twisted metal. With the weight and force of my body; I crushed your window and tried to pull you free. The smell of smoke now filled the cabin, and flames made their presence known by the engine. With all of my might I tried to pull you free, I had your shoulders out of the window.

Just a little bit more, I said. That's when it blew. The force knocked me back, but somehow did not kill me You remained within the fire, not feeling, not realizing that your life was being taken. Encased within a red metal coffin; that was the last time I ever saw you.

I have taken all of the notes, and all of the letters that I have written to you. folded them into boats and set them on their journey to the bottom of the channel. I sat in the sand and watch the waves take them until the last bit of paper was gone. That was earlier this morning. I now stand upon a mountain top; below me is five hundred feet of pain and regret. And I shall fall through it all, once I reach to bottom I will be with you again! I will finally be able to hold you dearly my love, my angel!

Goodbye for now. I long for the moment to say hello again.

With my deepest affection.
Arthor.