In Sunblasted Light

A letter received, once, long ago.

I wish to sit in sunblasted light, surrounded without shadow(s) all clear etched in reality of here now solid. I’ll pull the curtains aside reach out towards the glass to wipe the sooty spring away and
there is no light today.

My cave, my hermit life, the darkness of one curtained glass , the glass looks out yet I find I’ve become blind.

There were horrors, there are some now I’m sure and though I’ve changed (blind) my own humanity has not, the horrors reside in me as in all
it is our acts that will tell, not our thoughts.

If I spoke now I could only tell of the memories of what I saw before.
I could only tell of a few of the thoughts I’ve had since.

I refuse to act on the horrors inside yet I watched myself as they seeped through
I did not want to become who I was and what I saw was a monster.

Some writers create a monster to walk among us,
some know they have reflected the monsters they see.
I knew the monster to be me.
To be me outside alongside you
myself, the monster, grew
and that for all, my monstrosity was not acceptable to what I hoped
was left of my humanity.

Divided, perhaps we all do, in thought between the inside secret the outside revealed,
the acts of kindness covering thoughts unsavory.

To notice that we age and wither away no matter and that there is a battle to ignore or defeat this -
the foolishness of sympathy for those who show the age and frailty -
it is that sympathy that reveals our monstrosity
we will all become frail.

Even when the end comes quickly the way one falls or finds endless sleep abed, the result, the corpse emptied of life deflated an exhibit of frail.
We are so easily broken, no matter how quickly or slow, the end arrives.
The end arrives.
That was true. I found that once one was gone my thoughts did not return to them,
not often
if the memories were fond or held some mystery both the fondness or mysterious returned sporadic.

We do go on, and it is the living who are important
not the dead, perhaps not even the dying.
(those close to death)
So I found a place to deeply stay and live each day sometimes filled — emotion or none, thoughts or none, we/I have no … I have the discipline enough to wake and do what must be done and yet

I wish to live in light. Not the holy light some aspire,
that is nothing I know of/believe in/desire.
The light that warms and blossoms on my skin.

The light that I could see and feel, for though blind I see light and dark and knew once so hold in mind still, the colors of trees insects — the breeze
My cave rarely holds a breeze
they now say it’s to protect me … from what?
from my thoughts and if they get out — contagion.

So, if you read this know I am gone. Truely gone no cave no metaphor.
Do not morn
there’s no point to it.