Is that what defines us then, the grace and fortitude with which we handle grief and pain?
Only if you wish to be constrained by that definition.
It is our natural inclination to seek happiness, isn’t it? Even in our darkest moments, there is a murmur urging us towards the light.
From the depths of pathos, has emerged the most delicate art and poetry. Why is joy the only acceptable state of mind, or is it just the most convenient to handle?
Wouldn’t you want to gather all the pieces and carry on, Marcus, cracked and broken, yet a more complete person?
What if the poems are lost along with the angst?
like fingers moving over prayer beads
one by one
the shore draws in the waves