A letter to the Colonel from princess Saturday

My dearest Colonel:

            I write this letter while lying in bed, sick of a slight cough –nothing serious. But with a deep ache in my soul. I can’t stand loneliness and I’m sure I’m a little depressed –just as my cough, nothing serious but real enough to hurt me. What can I say? You don’t seem very interested in me and I feel very pathetic writing all of this… Why should you care about my state of health or of mind? Why should I send a desperate note from my isolation, wishing for you to answer in a theatrical tone and save me from this sadness?

            And I know, no, you simply don’t care about me. Days pass by and people ignore just like it’s been all my life. I’m trapped inside my loneliness but I don’t know how to escape, or maybe I am too weak and afraid to raise my foot and step just once and then start walking. I’m not that courageous. I’ve always encouraged people to confront their loneliness, to face the abyss within them, and I’ve already done it. But there’s a second danger, more subtle because it doesn’t burns like the need of seeing people. And it’s the risk of getting stuck in isolation. People seem boring and dull, and one starts being boring and dull. One loses all, the enigmatic look, the interesting face and the exciting conversation topics. Now, I’m still nature. Just an artificial emulation of something that once was alive and natural.

            Of course, you know very well all of this and you seem quite acquainted with loneliness, and in contrast with me, you seem to cope with it quite good.

            That’s why I know, I’m certain about it, that you don’t give a damn about my state. You know how it feels and surely you know I’m whining over nothing. It doesn’t matter, I’m not very sure I’ll send this letter to you. I don’t think it worth’s the effort of making you read. What do I win by making you notice how unhappy I live? Do I want you to feel sorry about me or feel pity? I think I’ve reached rock bottom. And I can’t see now any sense in all of this. It is non-sense, if I write it’s because my finger tips burn with the idea, writing is everything to me. I couldn’t last a day without writing. I think you understand. But you don’t simply care…

            Sincerely yours, P. Saturday