It was like simply wanting to give up at last,
the saying fifty times a day, not quite to yourself,
"I'm tired, so tired of this, of everything",
until you'd forgotten somehow what you were tired of,
and realised, unavailingly, hopelessly,
that saying it meant something else, to you, to life,
something closer to the "Help me! Please!" you used to
want to cry out, aloud, again, to no one,
for no reason,
for simply being there, here, baffled
by these quantities of need and groundless sorrow...
How could you have gone past that,
only to arrive at this,
this about which there is nothing whatsoever you can feel
except the certainty of knowing that you're doing what you're doing to yourself,
but why?
And if you pass this, what will that have meant,
what will it have cost to accomplish this undoing?
C.K.Williams
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