My tragedy is self-writ, born out of my own will. I mark my own path and find myself in wasteland.
O perverse irony! I asked you for strength to persevere along this very way. Where is there room for obedience?
Had I followed your way, I should be resting in Alpine meadows with the deer. Instead I suffer under harsh light, by brackish waters.
Lord, let me follow your way from the beginning. Guide even my first step out the door.
(Letter #2,359)
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