Dear So-and-So

I finally decided to write because lately
I'd rather freeze to death out on the piers
after the sun goes down than make my way
home yet again to my empty, white house
alone. I had to do something, and nothing
else, aside from writing this letter, seemed
like it was going to work. Every time
I have the chance to finally act, with
grace and honesty, I fail to keep from sticking
to my same-old routine, fail to keep myself
for just walking on down the line,
like always, fail to stop you, say,
in the square. If you are hearing or reading
this, I guess I managed to stop you
in the end. Well, then, howdy, my name
is Nothing-Comes-Easy. I failed to stop you
and tell you this primarily because this is
not a name I would have chosen. Whenever
I do actually say it out loud to someone,
it just doesn't ring true. These days,
I'd just as soon avoid such predicaments
altogether, rather than finding myself in that
uncomfortable position of needing to be overly
honest: "Hi. My name is Zero. I am no one
you should probably mess with, and I'll
definitely never be half as great as the heroic
men you should really go out and find." Sadly,
honestly would require that I admit how rarely
I wake up in the morning and think, "Wow!
What a day! First we'll stroll, then we'll feast,
then we'll dance." So I can't be honest and I
can't say hello because I hate the idea of having
to confess that my skull aches most of the time,
and that I am not famous, or rich, really very
sweet. And I'm pretty sure I'm rotting from
the inside out. Worse yet, I fear my kind
of rot is passed on too easily. Even if I really
wanted to be here, I could never take
just-a-little-bit for an answer anyway. Nothing
like friends will work. It's got to be total devotion
or death with me. So you see, it just wouldn't
be right for me to introduce myself because
it's been so long since I understood anyone
I'd probably smother you with my efforts
to rediscover it all. But I feel like a reluctant lion,
being forced back into the cage each night
with nothing to show for the day except hunger.
Lately, the empty house itself make me sick,
the white walls creaking with wind. No matter
how many books and tables you fit into a room,
it still echoes in the most lonely way
with only one set of ears there to catch
the waves. My name is Nothing-Comes-Easy,
and I want to warn you that as soon as I
find something of value in that name, I might
just be forced to stop you in public and take up
your time with my stammering and awkward
fidgeting. Until then, I guess it's pretty fine by me
to just keep passing in the square. There is a great
sense of wonder that comes from not knowing
more about a certain person than just the way
they look in certain light, or just the way
their footsteps in the square sound at
certain times of year. For some strange reason,
I have a passion for keeping that sort of
distanced fascination alive. Here's to wonder, then,
and imagining truer names, and feeling something real.