The Exile

What kind of life is that of the exiled self? Where the past hurts deep and the present burns relentlessly. Where the self is lost because to find it is to once again know the bitter taste of weeping and gnashing of teeth. Where the choice of exile and death, the choice to live in the baron wastes is more comforting than that of living with others and sharing with them. The longing and emptiness is greater than the breadth of the ocean, and just as daunting to cross. This is how far I run, and where I hide. I have seen too much of love, and from that I know the emptiness that is to be without love. I have learned too much of hate and of lies and of neglect to let me convince myself that I could once again find love in another. When for years the only true word is no. The sad thing is, respect is kept for those who say that word and mean it, rater than those who do not say that word, but whose deceptions prove its truth. I did not sleep this night, I am haunted and alone. To be alone is a dry place, but to be without hope is like having a great thirst while in a dry place. Somehow death sounds like comfort, as there is no rest in rest. There is no one to share my burden, but then again that is not my wish. Why must I go on? Why can't I quit? Is it not cruel to prologue the suffering of a lame animal. One with no hope of a greater existence than this. Or can I learn from the heart of joy of another again. One who will not feed me the empty calories of lies to satisfy my body's needs. Catch 22... I am alone because I cannot escape, I cannot escape because I am alone.