He shouts the questions into the dark surrounding, into the ever-present dark which follows him into the day or the night, its oppressive presence suffocating him week by week, year by year:
“Why should I kill myself?”
There is no answer.
“Why do I lie in bed for hours, awake, unable to move?”
There is no answer.
“Why do I suddenly break down and cry when I’m alone?”
There is no answer.
The darkness cannot answer, and this light somewhat protects him.
“I just want a reason.”
A voice does come, breaking through the miasma: “In the darkness, still see one step in front of you. It will be enough.”
I walk one step at a time.
Tale Told 