And I cry, it's not fair...

I have always felt as though I have something to prove: I have to do more, be better, to make other people's gifts and offerings worthwhile; to earn their care or justify their faith. I spent years trying to live up to the sacrifice I believed the people in my life made to allow me there, while also trying to be good enough for other people to love. I am still living as if the choices made by others are debts I have to repay, marks in a ledger I can never hope to expunge.

He finds himself, leaves himself, go towards himself, comes from himself, nothing ever but him, a particle of him, retrieved, lost, gone astray. He is all these words, all these strangers, this dust of words, with no ground for their settling, no sky for their dispersing, coming together to say, fleeing one another to say, that he is them, all of them, those that merge, those that part, those that never meet, and nothing else. Yes, something else, that he is something quite different, a quite different thing, a wordless thing in an empty place, a hard shut dry cold black place, where nothing stirs, nothing speaks, and that he listens, and that he seeks, like a caged beast born of caged beasts born of caged beasts born of caged beasts.