Thursday, December 15, 2022

I fear woe — and it comes.

I fear worry — this becomes its own prophecy.

Might I instead fashion my own paradise?

I sit with you, I need but cry out, or even whisper, whimper, and you are here with me.

Let me then face the day knowing I have an ally and friend. My troubles fade, mist under the sunshine of your gaze.

(Letter #2,746)