How many times have I woken in the night?--disturbed because there was enough light to wake me--And, been unable to arrange the shadows in a way that made sense?

How many times have I woken with fear, worried that my father was in trouble?

And how can I be thankful or grateful or in any way understanding when I receive an email informing me when I must move, as if I were a soldier in the army?

How can I be thankful for the shattered nights?

So many shattered nights, and not just on account of this or that email.

Am I to really say or imagine that this is a good life?

As if I were some idiot popularizer of good-feeling and shallow wisdom?

I can taste the bitterness of my isolation and submission,

and there is nothing in that of beauty or reason, or, even, common sense.

No,

I am not used to it,

and,

No,

I don't really believe or accept any of the empty words offered to justify it.

My silence is not assent.

My silent screams are deafening.