BY MAX WALLER
Dear Ebenezer,
It is cold once again, which suits my current state of mind quite well, though I find it less of a friend than I used to. No, I now see the suffering it brings—the incessant gloom, reduced sunlight, and icy air—more as a means of atoning for ever believing that warmth (be it climate or humanity) could be found in this country of ours. We are a miserable people, mostly, and can we be blamed for it? We live on this wet, cold, windblown island with barely a glimpse of the sun and are somehow expected to rejoice that we are the greatest nation on earth. No, we are merely a country of insecure men (and women), desperate not to be consigned to mediocrity, lest we have nothing to declare of our name on our gravestones—hence our ambition.
Case in point: Perhaps it was my own ambition that led to my fiancée, Belle, breaking off her engagement with me.
Now, as I sit here, the cold seeping through the cracks of my office, I’ve come to a stark realisation—one that will guide my path from this day forward. I will not risk loving anyone ever again. The pain of losing Belle, of watching her walk away because of my ambition, my singular focus on wealth and security, has left me with an icy resolve. Love, I’ve decided, is but a folly—a distraction from the true path to success. My heart, once so foolishly given, will now be guarded, encased in the same frost that covers this land, impenetrable to the warmth of affection or the joy of companionship.
I see now the wisdom in those tales from A Token for Children, where the stories warn of the perils of straying from the path of righteousness or of forming dangerous worldly attachments. While those tales speak of a different kind of peril, I’ve learned my own lesson about the dangers of emotional investment. The joy of love is fleeting, but the pain of its loss is enduring—a lesson I’ll not need to learn twice.
From here on, my focus will be solely on myself. In this world, where the winter seems never-ending and the sun barely peeks through the clouds, I see no reason to share my warmth. If I am to thrive, if I am to leave my mark on this world, it will be by my own hand and for my own gain. I will not seek the comfort of friends or the love of a partner, for what have these brought me but heartache? Instead, I shall amass wealth, power, and influence, ensuring my name is remembered—not for love, but for the legacy of a man who knew how to look after himself.
This determination solidifies with each cold breath I take and each dark day that passes. I will not be like those who, in their folly, believe that life is about sharing, about growing with others. No, I will grow alone, like a tree in the midst of winter: its branches bare but its roots deep, drawing from the earth only what it needs to survive. Let others seek their happiness in the smiles of loved ones or the warmth of a hearth shared; I will find mine in the solitude of my counting house, in the clinking of coins, and in the silence of a life unburdened by the expectations of others.
I’ve watched the world, Ebenezer, and I’ve seen how love leads to ruin. Men and women, once vibrant and full of life, become shadows of what they were, all because they allowed themselves to care too deeply. I will not be among them. My legacy will not be one of love lost or friendships betrayed, but of a man who knew how to survive, to thrive, in a world that offers no quarter to the sentimental.
As I write this, the wind howls outside—a fitting echo to the resolve within me. Each gust seems to whisper that I am right, that the path of solitude and self-interest is the only one that leads to true security. I will not look back on Belle’s departure with regret, but rather as the moment I learned to truly see. Love is a luxury I can no longer afford, and even if I once felt its warmth, I now choose the certainty of cold calculation over the unpredictability of human affection.
So, I shall live, Ebenezer, with my heart locked away, my emotions a distant memory, and my days dedicated to the pursuit of wealth and the preservation of self. In this, I find my peace and my purpose, and let the world judge me as it will. I am but a man of my time, shaped by its harshness, its cold, its unforgiving nature, and I will not apologise for learning to survive within it.
Yours in solitude,
Ebenezer
24th December, 1815
Max Waller is a Gloucestershire based writer who has dabbled in film, opera and theatre. Having suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune on the periphery of Hollywood, he is currently developing a fresh new slate of creative projects in 2024 along with several collaborators and hopes to help restore some sanity with his keen weather eye for the cultural zeitgeist, tradition and occasional whimsy. His blog Digital Renegade features an eclectic mix of short stories, cultural essays and personal remembrances.