I am a vessel without course or chart. Cast completely from my moorings, I float, aimless. The storms that brought me to such a state are far behind me, but still I seek the shelter of a port where I might come to rest. This journal will serve as the log of my wanderings- and hopefully of their end.
As I write this, curled up on the end of the shabby couch in my temporary quarters, I am utterly alone. It is not for the first time, but it is the most complete. There is not now a soul upon whom I could depend; at least, not truly, and it's useless to count those who might offer in a moment of ill-considered kindness without having the desire or capability to follow through. And then there are those- few, thankfully- who have desire and capability and the right of it, too, but for whose dear sakes I would never accept. My pen would name them, but my eyes won't permit it. They water so disloyally despite my orders to the contrary. What control I once exerted over them seems lost now that no one else is near enough to notice. What of it, then?
In strictly material terms, my situation is fairly stable. Only a fool would fail to find some comfort in that. But it appears certain that I have resources sufficient to enable me to be able to live comfortably, if modestly, anywhere in the world I might choose to settle, and to allow me some entry into society. Assuming I can find it.
I had no idea, no inkling at all, when I made my choice to begin again alone, that I would be subjecting myself to the most profound loneliness I believe I've ever experienced. Perhaps I could not imagine it. There's always been something before- but then, I had faith, too, before. Now I feel as though I would happily part with a pound or two of flesh if only I might have one of my more worthy enemies near me to plague me out of this pathetic self-pity. Or that I would squander my reputation and my pride in order to feel the fundamental reassurance of another's touch. Anyone's touch. Fresh sensations to replace months and years-old memories both wondrous and horrific, which the mind, given no better food to sustain it, gnaws as tirelessly as a dog at a bone, slavering over the mere recollection of the taste.
I have one desire for this journal: that the emptiness which I have described be overwritten by new experiences just as surely as the blank pages contained herein are covered by the rambling patterns of ink I employ to chronicle what follows.