this brutal, unusual path

It is self-inflicted
it is torture
There is no sense to it
other than the meaning you inject
There are no rules here,
just mirrors everywhere you look
and you cannot look away
There are no shackles
but you can hear screams
It is a sort of nourishment,
a sort of miserable therapy
The outward eyes don't know,
the inward eyes know all too well
No shadows can hide here
no closure exists
There is just the constant exercise
of your will against the wind
You are as happy as you care to be
and you have chosen
this brutal, unusual path
There will always be the questions
like there will always be funerals and weddings
There will always be those moments
that make you stop and think
Everyone knows
you are not pleased with yourself
but can you make peace with yourself?
It is like talking sense to the mountains
Living with you will always be
wars and rumors of wars.