The Shores of the Atlantic, I

Upon reflection, perhaps recording my thoughts is not the best of ideas. Also upon reflection, perhaps it doesn't matter. Perhaps I will stumble upon the thoughts of another's, thoughts far more profound than mine.
Regardless, I write.

When everything was normal I did not believe who you are to be defined by anything other than what the people you loved thought of you.
There is no one left to judge me. I am no one. I am nothing. My name, age, medical information - nothing.
No one is left to care.

Whatever remains of me, that is all that is left of sentient conscience. For once, in a bitterly laughable way, the world and I are on the same page. Devoid of soul and thought. Devoid.

The Void...

Once, I know, there were colors. When they existed, their favorite place was right here in New England.
Vibrant means nothing now.

Neither does desolate, really. I was never a wordsmith; perhaps one should have survived to name this place. On the shores of the Atlantic, that cold forbidding sea, the world swallowed up the happiness and warmth of you and me. Children might sing that in generations to come, if there were any children to sing.
Or any generations to come...

I don't know his name, but I think he's writing me.