text: Sitting amongst the dusty chairs and tables, sits a man, the mysterious man who lived at the top of a tower, bells clanging at every hour, in the middle of a congested city. This building was the tallest building, and no one dared enter it, as the stories from years, decades and centuries ago filled the walls and whispered horrors which made the light dim in one’s eyes, follow their back as they went home, lock their windows and doors, hide under the covers, and never, never and ever emerge again. Again Again Again Dear camarade , I will tell you this from the beginning of the month. A month that holds the depths of a New Year's resolution and the beacon of light that can change someone’s life completely. And here I write trying to muster an idea from the scraps of rubbish that litter my brain into something worth fighting for and trying, for just a month. The month which could change many. I will try to walk.. Walk..out the door of this hellhole. The place that I have called home for years and years, that much time has passed that I haven’t been able to count. So here I look at my little clock and write I will , by the end of the month, walk out and see the people who have forgotten my existence, over the past 47 years, 3 months, 19 hours, 23 minutes, 32 seconds..33 seconds...34 seconds... Dear camarade , I begin to try. Today, I stood up from my chair. Surprise, isn’t it? I stood up from my chair and decided that it would be a good idea to look outside the window. A window which I hadn’t looked at for a long time. The draping heavy velveteen curtains screeched and swished as my hands meagrely brushed against them and pulled them aside. Blinding light bombarded the room as I had just managed to open up a sliver, and colour, colour had exploded. My eyes grew bleary at the light. So bright. My eyes cried their tears. For what I don’t know, maybe because of the sudden light which I had banished from this room for the last few years. Maybe the sight of seeing something other than the drab monotone colours of the night. Which had not a candle in sight. And maybe, just being able to see..something. Dear camarade , I try. Again . I opened the sliver further. Now, it was open a foot wide. And my eyes hurt. But I looked and saw a blue sky. I had read in several books where philosophers found the sky to be “mesmerising” and “crystal clear as the dew upon the grass' '. But, nothing could be compared to what I saw then. A clear sky. In simple words, a haven unbound and free, with the wind revelling and dancing amongst the stars and the moons. And the chorus of birds filled the air. The tower remained silent, not a cheep at all, but an almighty clang, as noon struck and I turned around, sat down, and began writing. Dear camarade , I try. Again. There is no gap in the window. Now, there is just a pane of glass that separates the outside air and the inside air. A thin layer of sand. And I hope in a day or two, the pane of sand can be removed and I can open it and breathe in the air that I can only dream of. But, for now, as I write with ink that shall soon run out, till I shall retrieve some more, I sit here afraid. But of what, I don’t know. Is it the light or the isolation that I have been with for the last few years? Because of that, now, me and loneliness go hand in hand. Friends who have won a war together and shall now suffer the loss and pain of the fallen soldiers. But today, I shall not render upon that. Today I will tell you why people are so scared of this tower. Scared is a harsh word for this case. But to elucidate this matter, I shall retain the word “scared”. This tower, the clock tower is dark, gloomy and horrifyingly sad. It was once painted black and gold, yet the mere misery of the town had made it torn a despondent ash black. With this information, you can clearly understand that the town was “scared” due to the looks of the towering tower. But, unlike the outside. I had managed to keep everything out of clutter, yet the dust did not prevail as it set every single day. Dear camarade , I do not try again. Before you presume anything, let me explain. It has been several boring and painstaking number of days now since the window was opened. And now it stays open. I like to look out of it and see the wonderful sky, but never and ever do I look down to see the townsfolk who must wonder why the window stayed open all day and all night. But, I am tired of my dearest camarade. I am tired and I feel as though death is near, yet I feel the strength of the world in my bones. The person I had been honed into was withering by the months. At least I am grateful that I still have time to relax and think about my life. I write to you as I lay in my bed. I think nothing. Dear camarade , I do not try again. You know I can walk. But the descent of the stairs tires me. It tires me so much that my bones ache and I am too tired to do the journey. Saying the word journey makes it seem to be long. No matter how much you may mock me, I persist and say that it is a long journey. It is 6518 steps, precisely. Tell me that is a small number! You can’t. Since you’re 6 feet below the ground. I had counted them the very day I had entered this “place”. The day I came back to this city, battered and bruised, the images of a red sea full of metal - playing on repeat - again and again and again. I shall never forget that day - and definitely not that memory. Dear camarade , I try. Again. Laugh at me all you wish. Call me a coward. Know that I am glaring at you - viciously. I am laughing as I write this. It has been a long time since I laughed my old friend. But I can still imagine you walking out your grave and calling me a damn coward for doing such actions. And I relish this laugh. And as I said at the beginning of this entry. I try again. So today, holding that laugh deep into my heart and soul and brain, I picked up my walking stick and took the first step down the stairs and walked 147 steps. Now once again you are laughing at me. But mind that I am an old man now - at the age of 63..having been 63 years for a long time...I forgot my birthday. I forgot my name - but I still remember yours old friend. Vice Admiral Benbow Dear camarade , I tri ed . Again. It has been days since I last talked to you - though it was for a reason. I have been going down those steps with leaps and bounds. First, 268 steps. Then, 562 steps After, 1379 steps And very soon..I reached the bottom stop - where I heaved a sigh and straightened my old back - and went back up. Cowardice took the better of me. I am sorry. Dear camarade , I try. Again. For the last time. On the last day of this month. Sweet January. And I know you are not surprised as you know that I never give up without another try. So now I write, telling you about how I conquered. And here is how it went my friend. My legs now brittle with age, limped and crinkled down the steps and into the awakening courtyard. Someone had tended to these gardens as I had left them and had made them flush with bleeding hearts, peonies, hydrangeas and smiling daisies. And outside that courtyard is a mass of people. Both young and old, girl and boy. Everyone. They gaze at me with smiling eyes. And I go to them with my medals pinned to my chest. And no one forgot. My mind no longer holds the grief that had been infecting my brain for so long. It was a long-long time And from this moment onwards, I shall live with the country which I fought for, no longer alone. Starting with 1 second...2 seconds..3 seconds....until the bitter end - where I meet with you once again. Yours Sincerely Admiral Veris Callaghan. War Veteran.