I know what it's like to want, feel, and yearn. However, I also know that anything resembling love cannot behold me for long. It doesn't matter who is on the other side of my affections, no one can stare into the eyes of the Monster. The Monster isn't evil, or even particularly ugly; the monster is just different. He is too different to have friends, lovers, or any company for long. He lives in the deep water of solitude, so far down that only experts and fools will try to meet him. No one can stay for long. The Monster is used to the pressure, the darkness, and the cold. Anyone hanging on would just drown. If you take the monster out of the water, he will be out of his element: the Monster can only go so far from his watery lair. Every night, he returns to the depths to sleep. Who would follow? Who would love? Who would even care? The list is short. It resembles an empty chalkboard with years of hopeful names erased and written over. If you don't believe me, when was the last time you saw my face?
Friendship is ephemeral, especially for the Monster. His infamy looms large, but who travels to see him? He's in many stories, but is he ever close at hand? He's at the bottom of his watery lair, conversing with himself because he has no one to share a moment. He can write epistles such as these, but no matter how compelling his letters become, he knows that nothing changes Monstrosity.
From ghoulies and ghosties
And long-leggedy beasties
And things that go bump in the night,
Good Lord, deliver us!
My ghoulish white skin, and ghostly thinning hair hang off my long, injured legs to smash the walls of my watery lair nightly. You might hear me, but you might not. Just because you hear, doesn't mean you understand. Just because you understand, doesn't mean you witness.
Hope springs eternal for fools. Is honesty a virtue? I like to think so. Why ask a question when the answer is obvious? Sometimes, we thirst for understanding among witnesses so desperately that we create ideals and ideal situations to resemble our social needs. The Monster is one of these creations. He explains phenomena, and allows for a sense of self to me. No one else is around to help define me. I'd rather not think of myself as Prester Bane and the rest of my best friends describe me, but I'm left with little choice: The Monster puts me at the center of my universe. I must make the Choir, Prester Bane, the Many Armed Knight, The Scabbard Man, The Harvester and the rest revolve around me, not turn me into a planet orbiting them in madness. There are no witnesses to me but the people who read these words. How many of you would honestly call me "friend?" The answer is in the few that bother to reach me.