I wish that I could put a finger on it, the cause of this icy, numbness that has fallen over my heart like the hoar frost over tender young shoots. I cannot seem to find the joy in what I ordinarily like to do. I cannot find the voice of truth inside, or if I find it, I want to hide myself from its withering glance. Perhaps it is the phenomenon of aging, and its requisite letting go of the controls so desperately grasped. I see nothing ahead of me but uncertainty. I have been deceived before, abandoned, and left to wander in the desert of my own thoughts. Isolation is a comfortable garment, and sleeplessness a way of being. Oh bitter night. Oh darkness that dawn’s pale light cannot pierce. Is there a light out there somewhere? If so, may it come to find me.