Self

Tonight he will sleep. At the end of it he returns to this final awareness, that he inhabits this life, this body—two arms, two eyes, legs on which to stand, a name. He cradles in his hand the vessel containing the very mechanism of his mind. He thinks, They cannot hurt me; I do not even know that they wish to. The taking, the affront, the incitement to his resentment—they have done this thing and the world is now broken with this thing and yet he breathes. Aches, but breathes. The thrashing of his soul last night was his raging to try to buttress the world’s falling walls. The sleeplessness brings a richer balm. He wearies of anger and sees what it is, fear. He wearies of fear and sees what it is, obsession. He wearies of obsession and sees what it is, loving what is to be lost. He will sleep tonight within this world that has been reordered, and dream.

Mojzesz Rynecki, Self-portrait, 1931