Please don’t expect me to always be good and kind and loving. There are times when I will be cold and thoughtless and hard to understand.

Please, I want so badly for the good things to happen.

What did my fingers do before they held him? What did my heart do, with its love?

There is no life higher than the grasstops

God, is this all it is, the ricocheting down the corridor of laughter and tears? Of self-worship and self-loathing? Of glory and disgust?

God, how I ricochet between certainties and doubts.

The constant struggle in mature life, I think, is to accept the necessity of tragedy and conflict, and not to try to escape to some falsely simple solution which does not include these more somber complexities.