People say they write the unsaid, or that they write to sort things out, make sense of things so they can deal with them.

The wonders of life remain far more unsaid than its dark and its dreary times.

And I don't know about you but I feel like I really need to sort out these intense feelings of love and wonderment. They're so big I have trouble comprehending them, or even doing them the smallest amount of justice.


Fixating on the dark and dreary does not make things brighter.

Dwelling on all the terrible things in the world does not heal it.

Hating the rapist and the murderer just breathes more hate into the world.

Hating yourself for what you've done to another does not rectify the situation.


You who want more love in the world, who want to see it blossom into a web of equality and understanding and tolerance:

What sense does it make to breed grief and hate?