From a high wall, you look down on others broken. Whence fell they?
It’s the kind of fortitude and okayness that come only from soaking up the outpouring from a ripped open heart.
Love is a mess of romance and compassion. Compassion can remain.
Therapeutic tunnels promising greener grass succeed when they dump us back on the brown patch where we began.
As, by aging, wisdom besets me absent volition, a realization unfolds from within… some interpersonal relationships perhaps born of transaction or convenience evolve to survive…
Wishing we have “ears to hear” above the din of judgmental self-talk