For we are like tree trunks in the snow. In appearance they lie smoothly and a little push should be enough to set them rolling. No, it can't be done, for they are firmly wedded to the ground. But see, even that is only appearance.
The various forms of despair at the various stations on the road.
Going to pieces. To go to pieces so pointlessly and unnecessarily.
Writing is utter solitude, the descent into the cold abyss of oneself.
One must fight to get to the top, especially if one starts at the bottom.
This morning, for the first time in a long time, the joy again of imagining a knife twisted in my heart.