My soul is aching and I can’t say for certain that I know why.
When my heart feels so heavy that the tears you could wring from it will create torrential downpour, I write.
I write until I can not write anymore. Until my eyes are heavy and my fingers are cramped and I have wrung the last tear from my heart.
This time, I don’t know where to begin. This time my hands are not large enough to wring my own heart. They are not capable.

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