letter

this life seems a numbing dream I try to sustain, inevitably i see through the planks of this makeshift bridge glimpsing the infite chasm beneath me. Abysses open up under my feet at the slightest provocation. I am like the candle- panicked by the smallest breath. My eyes are prisons, my tears inmates of indifference. My words bleed where i cannot. They carry the feint odour of a despair that is locked inside a labyrinth of roomless doors. I take refuge in my words, the words my pen weeps. As long as I am speaking, as long as I am writing, my pain is less keen. There are those whose pain leaves them abandoned in the frozen landscapes of the desert. How can we care for the world (that abominable abstraction) or for others when we are hounded by our own existence? Insomnia, someone once wrote, stems from a lack of faith. To sleep requires one to trust the night. Those who see the world with eyes that have plunged into hell cannot close them to the night. We know the dark too intimately to turn our backs to it.