I cam closer to the trains than you will ever be. As I write this, I am rocking atop the slanted roof of a freight car, riding the Union Pacific.
We used to love the trains. Every Christmas Grandfather would add a scale model to our collection, and together we built a railroad around our kingdom of block cities.
Your agoraphobia has prevented you from ever riding one, from that day onwards. To this I ache, because it is so beautiful.
The wind has pulled my hair into a permanent fray and tears at the rippling fabric of my tattered clothes, and I emrace it with open arms, sitting cross legged, eyes forward,
feeling for the first time truly transcendent. It is only from this spiritual elevation that I may complete myself.
There is a bridge approaching in the distant hour. It overlooks a crescent of the icecapped Rockies, which sparkle as reflections in the pristine face of the mountain lake it crosses.
It is off this I will jump to my death. Don't look for my body; the trout will nibble away what's left of me, and I will disperse into the pure soil, clean at last.
This letter may never reach you. I take solace in the hope that it will.
Tell Mother I love her, and Father that I wish I had been a better son, and he a better man. And you, my brother, I do this for both of us. It is what we both deserve.
Only in memories will I remain, and I beg you cherish the good ones, for there is such as eternal love.
And this I will finally know, as the winds of the mountain cascade over me, until the water engulfs me, and the light takes me.