The stupidity of it, the repetitiveness, the sense of one’s mental mechanism run amok.
Knowing that pragmatically, statistically, one’s fantasies are foolish, but still being trapped.
The almost unmanageable foreboding that one’s character won’t be up to its own exigences.
Knowing one is one’s own victim; how self-diminishing to have to ask, “Who really am I, then?”
I am someone to be rescued from my mind, but the agent of my suffering is its sole redemption;
only someone else, a specific someone else, can stop me from inflicting this upon myself.
And so within myself, in this insavory, insolent solitude if self, I fall into an odious dependency.
I’m like an invalid relying absolutely on another’s rectitude; but the desperate invalid, abandoned,
would have at least the moral compensation of knowing that he wasn’t doing this to himself;
philosophically, his reliance would be limited by the other’s sense of obligation, or its absence.
This excruciating, groundless need becomes more urgent, more to be desired the more it’s threatened,
while its dénouement promises what one sti believes will be an unimaginable luxurious release.
C. K. Williams, Collected Poems.