Dear God, What Should I Do?
Dear God,
What should I do with my broken heart? I have nowhere to put it. I have nowhere to dispose of its terrible heft. While I would strive to discover a darkness swarthy enough to hide it away, and bury it forever, I cannot. There is no place hidden enough, no place sufficiently insensible, no place obscure enough, no place lightless enough that it would perish for good.
I am hunted and pursued by it. This object of starkest damnation badgers me anon, like a hungry ghost of Buddhist lore, like a banshee, like a persistent torturer or wight of the underworld. I would renounce it wholly and send it to the custodianship of Satan, but even he refuses it. Even the rank whorls of perdition, forcibly constricted into black nets, cannot manage to suffocate it and snuff it dead.
Even when I crawl along the coral and the rock pools in the windswept midnight, I cannot discover a hollow in which to deposit my hellish millstone, my unfixable heart. Even were I to offer myself up as fodder to the silky jaguar, in his ravenous prowl, he would surely spit me out for disgust and disgruntlement. Even if I sequestered myself in the coal mines of Yorkshire, painting myself in tar, and refusing to breathe, it would persist, like an infernal diamond that can’t be destroyed.
What should I do with my implacable and unenviable broken heart? It is haggard as it is indestructible, a perennial weight. If in desperation I burrow to the cavernous ends of the universe, through dank soil and vast stratas of inert rock, there is no shadow inscrutable enough to spread over it absolutely. I can find no space sufficiently clandestine to disgorge my decrepit soul. Were I to meet the cacophonous waves by hurling myself from the cliffs, like King Aegeus, they would laugh at my person and mock my insufferable situation with frolicsome foam and bright white breakers. They would in consensus conclude that this case is indeed very fraught and drown me for sport, knowing that I would not die indeed…
