[This passage was originally written in 2013/2014. This does not reflect my situation today.]
The coldness and desolateness of this place is literally tangible on your skin. Slowly and slowly it sets in. An emptiness is present, so ubiquitous, it pervades one’s soul. Hope continuously tries to flee my grasp. An appropriate simile would be trying to contain a colored gas escaping from a popped balloon as I fight to hold on to hope. A unnatural force seems to tear me away from hope. So then, Why do I fight back? Why do I resist? Ancient teachings compel me to enslave and dominate nature, so why do I struggle with it as through it is an equal adversary. Perhaps not only are my loved ones and my beloved far away from me. Perhaps my dreams are as well. Is there a connection between the distance between myself and my aspirations and the distance of the physical reality. Why do I appear to be the only restless one in this forsaken place?
Am I manly enough to endure what loneliness will bring? Are my layers thick enough to withstand an icy stillness so desolate? Is it better to be alone in which one requires strength or to live in joy and be weak? Won’t you free me, Lord? Have I not suffered enough?
Every morning into which I arise each day, a dark haunting arises with me. It is not what I’ve done in my past but rather what I have not done.
What am I to do? I feel completely forlorn by the people who bore me. What is my fate? Perhaps, what hurts me more than being alone is not being able to reach for help. I am not even able to express my problems with reasonable solutions to accompany them. Do I have the blood of a negro? Perhaps with death, the fear we have of it is the nothing which follows it.