Time and time again you hear the same message that God is within and that the battleground for your soul and salvation is within. And yet what of the person who is empty, awaiting for God, is there room in there for this person? And how would we know it for sure ourselves? I have lost almost all bearings, I have no idea who I am suppose to be anymore, and what I’m supposed to do for it feels all that has been done has been done and all that is left has been done as well, there is nothing left for me. I no longer teach. I no longer publish. What I write I can’t describe with any sense of coherence. I am a writer who does not want to publish in this marketing-obsessed world. I have few friends and I am not about to garner some new ones any time soon. My future is wide open, because there are no prospects. And yet, I continue to read Jung and write about what I read in his book “The Red Book,” and I continue to go into the city to look at art and write about what I see. I journal, of what I cannot say; I work on old novels and new collections and nowhere is there an outlet other than my own hand. I am grasping at tendrils and threads and some of it holds purchase, but most does not. It’s gone up in my depressive funk, my pharmaceutical haze, my ire and ennui, my solitude and insanity. All swallowed.