The tone for this will sit somewhere between morose, somber and melancholy...it may at times venture into other 'moods', but I'll do my best to keep that from happening. Mike, please don't move this and make it a 'feature', what I have to say doesn't warrant being spotlighted, I don't want it on the front page...please permit me this one little insistence of mine.

I read quite a bit. Words, in general, appeal to me, particularly those that are written, specifically those that are penned in moments of pure, unbridled levity. As far back as I can remember, I've always been this way...I endeavor to engage others in thoughtful discussions filled with thousands upon thousands of words that carry both honesty and it's uglier, more creative counterpart...I take in music on an almost constant basis forgetting whatever beat or tune or melody accompanies the things I am listening for, so much so that I generally loathe instrumentals, so often that I feel completely vulnerable when I am without it...I pour through whatever tomes on whatever subjects I can get my hands on for a very innate, very primal, very voracious love of words. Sometimes, not often, I entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, I like words more than I like the people that give them to me. People have, from time to time, tried to tell me that a picture is worth a thousand words...my silent response to them has always been that a single word is worth ten thousand more, and more deserving of them than any picture could ever hope to be. I have always held that belief close to me, and never before have I entrusted anyone with this personal idea of mine. Now it's plain as day and just as repulsive.

A letter is how you start a word. A word is how you begin a sentence. A sentence yields a paragraph. A paragraph shapes something permanent, but ever-evolving, different to all who happen upon it, different every time to those who happen upon it more than once. It is defiant in its timelessness. It is rigid in its candor. It is disgusting in its honesty. It is huge and fragile in its deceit. It is everything and nothing and vast and concise and beautiful and horrible. And when you have more letters and words and paragraphs surrounding it, you have something entirely different, entirely dependent on the whole to create a sense of purpose and direction, entirely independent of everything else in creating a sharp, painful sense of urgency. Not one part is aware of its involvement...and not one part can survive without presence of the others. Each part coming together to form something inconceivably cohesive is an amazing miracle to me...and every time I read a word, it affects me so much that I'm afraid to read another one ever again, but I push the fear down and read the next one, and the next one, and the next one, and the next one, and the next one, and soon, I've forgotten what word made me feel everything all at once only to be forgotten in a very, very minute measure of time.

And then there are letters that form words that form sentences that form paragraphs that you can't forget...that you want to forget...that you wish you had never read to begin with...they are always there. My own work is like that for me, that's why I don't read it. I write it out by hand. I transcribe it letter by letter into endless, unknown, just as beautiful lines of ones and zeros. And I forget it ever came from anywhere inside me. Very rarely does it happen that letters, words, sentences, paragraphs of another are able to haunt me...to drive me forward, not out of inspiration, but out of dread, out of an all consuming fear that if I stop moving striving for even one minute, all of those little pieces of a little whole will thrash my soul and force me to submit my will and my all to them, turning me into a victim, a monument to their quiet, disarming power.

I happened upon a string of letters like this on the second day of the ninth month of the third year of the third millennium...words that grabbed me by anything they could latch onto and shook me inside out and gave me one chance to fight them and made sure that I knew that if I did struggle against what they had planned for me, it would be for good, and if I paused to so much as blink or cough or scratch my head, they would have me and take whomever else they so pleased. I do not hate the person who wrote the words. I do not hate the words that have come from that person since. I neither agree with his logic, nor can I denounce it...only fight it. I truly do care for this person, and I wish them not a whit of ill-will, but only the best that they can achieve in their lifetime. I do not blame them for hating me for my actions. I do not hope for a day where this person will forgive the wrongs they feel that I have perpetrated. I do not feel sorrow for this person's despair. I do not feel elation to know that I am not the only person capable of hurting. I no longer regret anything I've ever done, anything I've ever said, or anything I've ever written. I would not change a thing about my life, nor would I do any one thing to alter my situation. Life is precious to me now, life and all of its little nuances. Logic, analysis and second-guessing have gotten me this far, and perhaps they will continue to be my constant companions for a long time to come, but I shall try to couple them with some new things that I have found buried deep within me...courage, strength, and faith in the uncertainty of tomorrow (faith, no longer dread). I thank this person for the words that I am now doomed to carry with me for the rest of my days, because without them, I may never have known who I really am...I may never have known what really matters to me...I may never have understood the unbelievable power of my own convictions...I may never have known who I really love. Your letters begat words, you words begat sentences, your sentences begat a paragraph that means more to me than any other series of words ever has...thank you from the bottom of my being.

This has been an absolute joy to write, and I feel that it is fitting for my final piece on Alienated. No string of letters can properly express the debt I owe to each and every person who ever took time out of their busy, tumultuous and unrelenting lives to read my words. No string of words can convey the happiness brought to me by every word of encouragement or discouragement that I have received over the past however many months this little endeavor has lasted. No sentence I am capable of writing can shed light on the gratitude that I feel for every friend I have made, lost, and kept in my life, regardless of what they think of me as a writer. No paragraphs do this entire experience (life) justice...at least not right now. Very few people will ever be granted privilege of being given an explanation as to why this has to end right now...to the rest who will be forever left to speculate in the dark, please understand that I'm leaving, not because I no longer have anything to say, but only that I have lost my control over the words with which to say it.