(The nightmares return, continuous, not night after night
but too recurrent to shake when awakening again. I sleep
during the day. [There’s always a lesson out there
somewhere that I’ve missed, a schoolhouse
for my anxieties and ravenous, neural longings.
Fear of the dark doubles its meaning, illuminating
as much as enlightening. (No one saw my failure coming.
Only me. I knew. I told them too. I knew what was
on its way. [The only consistent flaw in my life
finds me alone–without love–most days,
most moments, unmercifully.] And if I can see
the way into my fate, how can I not see the way out?
As if we possess the future and dole it out
in absurd varieties of ecstasy and malignancy.
Oh no. No no no.) The dreams always end
with a realization. I know the suffering is mine
and not cast upon me. Because the deepest,
most terrifying fear is numbness, the soul impenetrable,
unattainable . . . ] The night soothes me. Meursault knew
the heat of madness, but I shield myself beneath
the most opaque morals and reason. This–all–is
true. [How can one ever be certain?
Every road leads outward . . .