There are days that seem spent as a spectator in my own degradation.
When life is essentially incomplete
and even weather assumes the character of fate.
I try to remember existing without a desire to escape.
Reality like a failure of the imagination.
Emptiness is also a facet of freedom. To be undefined.
What to offer a soul’s distress? Should I lapse from an austerity of truth?
Exchange inhumane fact for lying kindness?
Are there consolations in philosophy?
They say: “When the pupil is ready, the master will appear.”
I have waited a lifetime for that master to show up.
Am I still unready?
Perhaps a woman could teach me?
Yet I only seek her: she never finds me.
I worry about atrophy of the capacity for love.
I want to be rent with passion, not wounds of shame, through my withered heart.
If I could speak these words to someone
Would I need to write them down?