Day 32


I’m too tired to explain how fucked up my head feels, how trapped I feel in the cycle of “breathing is just too fucking hard – why does everything have to be so fucking hard?”  So I’m going to let Henry Wadsworth Longfellow do it:

“Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.”

“There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.”


“The heart, like the mind, has a memory.

And in it are kept the most precious keepsakes [and subconsciously-kept damage].”

“There are things of which I may not speak; …

There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,

And bring a pallor into the cheek,

And a mist before the eye.”


“Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;

Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;

Thy fate is the common fate of all,

Into each life some rain must fall”


“Let us labor for an inward stillness–

An inward stillness and an inward healing.

That perfect silence where the lips and heart

Are still, and we no longer entertain

Our own imperfect thoughts and vain opinions,

But God [God = love] alone speaks to us and we wait

In singleness of heart that we may know

His will, and in the silence of our spirits,

That we may do His will and do that only”


“The sky is filled with stars, invisible by day.”


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