Buried, restless

After six hours of struggle
with sleep and waking,
it dawns on me
that there is no fulfillment,
and the only sustainable hope is
for a ceaseless struggle
against something or the other,
preferably one that I lose ceaselessly.

I can see about twenty closed windows,
each with lives just like mine
and nothing like mine
lives to which I will never connect,
and if I do,
it'll be useless.
Things will not work
and it'll not make me sad,
and if they do
it'll not make me happy.

There will be days and nights,
there will be work and fun,
people will leave and come to stay
things will take up all of my time,
and yet there will be plenty of doing nothing.

There will remain
a part sensitive and eager
but buried, untouched, except grazed once in a while
by a sleepless night
and buried again.

That part when touched will withdraw,
will want but not accept,
will resist but give in,
will do everything to keep me alive,
and away from other lives.