Sometimes I talk to myself.
I mean, I've tried. Some days I talk to others.
But no one responds, as though I am non-existent.
Ten years I have haunted this white tower.
Ten years I have overlooked the foggy river.
Ten years I have seen the construction of the bridge to cross the foggy river, and the countless times they have failed. Why do they try so hard? Why do they build a bridge to cross into that which is unknown.
I'd like to tell them that. Actually, I have told them that. But they wouldn't listen.
Or maybe they can't listen to me. Do I even exist?
Ten years, I have sat in this white tower.
With this gift I wrapped ten years ago.
This gift I prepared for the unknown guest beyond the foggy river.
Ten years ago, they celebrated the master plan to build a vertical bridge and to lower it to cross the foggy river. They could only build it vertically, because no one dared to step into the foggy river. Tales were told of the dangers the rivers possessed. They hoped that when they lowered the bridge, the secret of what lied beyond the river would be discovered. But ten years later, bridge after bridge released, and bridge after bridge collapsed. No one knew how long the bridge had to be. Some collapsed because they were too short. Some because the structure was unstable. But ten years later, no one knew what was beyond the fog.
Ten years of building. Ten years unrequited.