And perhaps there are no answers, only this.

"The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing."
-R.Frost

Happiness comes and goes, as long as you remember not to lock the door.
But sadness is your favorite relative, grown sick in the guest room.
They never leave. And that's okay.

Lost in your own home.
Lost in my own metaphor.

"All war commanders are little men with broken hearts."

I carry, among other things, foolish notions of the past being any different, and that the future will be different too.
But then I keep reminding myself that there never seems to be a past or a future, rather a constant stream of the present.
Does this make me a pessimist?

Constant trade-offs, keeping us all awake at four in the morning, wondering where we went wrong.

Recognize the weight and reality and existence of everything around you, don't forget these things and carry them in wherever you keep such important things. That's the one thing I've learned.

The mind and the heart are awful copycats of each another. Force one to open and the other will follow suit by it's own accord.

All I can hope for is that a bit of this will make sense to someone else. Then I'll know I got it right.

I used to be told I'm manic depressive. Maybe they were right.