Happiness. It's relative.
There are a lot of hurting people.
Sad people, sick people, people shivering
in the dark, people covering their eyes with their hands,
sick with grief and longing.
I’m not one of them.
My hurting times were so long ago, I’ve
forgotten how to be frantic, how to look for
bandages in the cupboard.
I don’t have open wounds.
They healed over, new skin grew, the scars are
very faint, mostly imaginary, as if to lay claim
to the hardest times.
My sympathy is an abstraction.
I have visited terrible places but
forgotten their names and where they are
on the map that is now folded over a thousand times.
I have the map in my pocket.
I can show it to you anytime, show the evidence,
unfold the map, spread it on the table,
smooth out the creases with my hands.
Reblogged this on Red's Wrap.
Your writing is evidence…
Jan, thanks for this.
I need to find my map. I still get lost.
Bless you, for being so kind and honest.
I love this one.
This is so real! Thank you!
This is great.