Tuesday, April 24, 2012

I measure every grief I meet with analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine, or an easier size.
I wonder if they bore it long, or did it just begin?
I could not tell the date of mine, it feels so old a pain.
I wonder if it hurts to live, and if they have to try,
and wether, could they choose between, they would not rather die.
-Emily Dickinson 

I found this in the library today.
I identify with it so much, that it captured me to stillness.
I had to write it down immediately. It ran over and over in my mind.
I felt so very close to it's words.
I have thought something like this often, yet very much less poetic.
I bet people have even wondered this about me at times.

But the beauty of all that pain is the very fact that right now I know the joy of over coming and rising above it. I am so much more steady in my own bones than I could have every thought.

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