The Sorrow of Closed Doors

I dwell in the depths of darkness. Here there is sorrow, here there is peril. I do not wish for anyone to come and stay with me. This is why I never open the door to my house.

Many who see me wonder: why is this person like this? Why does he keep himself so far away? What arrogance is this?

They do not understand that coming near me is forbidden. To come here is to suffer. I do not want anyone to bear my sorrow. I know this sorrow is not meant to be shared.

If I were to imagine, even by mistake, that someone has taken some of my sorrow upon themselves!... then I might suddenly become unaccustomed to enduring it. And any respite from what has no escape is merely another name for death itself.

Yet sometimes, now and then, someone comes. They arrive at my door, and knock. I do not open it. One or two will sometimes push hard against the door. Forced, I relent and open.

They embrace me. They want to share my sorrow. They truly take it; they truly feel me... It is not that I have never met such a person—but we have never remained together, not yet. Sorrow is deeply cruel... it consumes the sorrowful, and it consumes the companion of the sorrowful alike.

One may gain riches by loving sorrow itself, but loving the sorrowful brings only pain. One can maintain friendship with darkness, but one cannot form friendship with darkness's companion.