This.

I was only given words as a tool to make sense of what was happening to me.

I was given words to help me process my pain.  

And so I use them.

What do you do when the darkness and emptiness come for you?

Nothing. 

You cannot do much.

You wait.

You let them come.

You let the pain take its course and move through you.

There will be well-wishers who will try to help.

They cannot.

There will be those who will try to make it worse.

Let them.

What have you to lose?

How much more can you lose?

Let yourself reach rock bottom.

Let the skin of your cheek feel the rough, cutting, black stone.

Let your tears mix with blood.

Sleep.

When your eyes open, place your palms on the very ground that claimed you.

And let your scraped knees take revenge.

 Rise.

You are alone.

You alone are enough.

Rise.

Evening

                                                                             
                                                                             It is evening. 

I am sitting in the garden and reading in the shade.

The sun has mellowed down,  but he eagerly peeks though the scrawny branches of a young mango tree.

 It seems like he wants to know what I am reading.  

There is a gentle breeze that moves about. 

It is making the leaves move and the sun dances about to peek though  the gaps between the leaves.

 The birds seem to be enjoying this affair.

 It's  hard to tell at whom their excited chirping sounds are directed. 

They could either be supporting the sun or taunting him.

I hold my book up to the sun. 

I watch the sunlight glint across the cover page. 

He has seen.  

"Notes To Myself- My Struggle To Become A Person." 

Now,  it is me who is curious.  

How does the sun see me?

I must be one speck in  millions of specks.

(Make that one speck-with-a-book.)

I think I  will return to my book now.  

The wind has died down and the sun seems to be too engrossed in  looking over his shoulder.  

To the east his attention lies.  

Always to the east.

My attention drifts to the west.

There is a promise of the moon.  

She will be bright and full tonight.

 When she comes,  she's  going to want all my attention. 

I better make the most of the orange-golden sun that now seems to be caressing the dry, fragrant  pages of my book.

What beauty nature creates.  

One is happy to be here. 

(Make that happy-with-a-book).