“No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”
Eleanor spoke the truth. What about intense sadness, whose consent is required for that? While cleaning out the basement, I was face with photographs, many framed photos, “not enough wall space many”…..was told maybe I should take the pictures out of the frames.
The suggestion broke me down. Snapped me into fragments, all I could see was what was gone. Never to return, the little babies, or a younger me, a younger us, with nothing but love and hope in our eyes, the innocence of not knowing how fucking hard life will be. Then verses now…..
So does crying help? Not at all. Not fucking at all.
I don’t feel inferior, I feel sad. I don’t think I am weak because of this I just feel broken, like a smashed windshield.
Holding it together unable to see.
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