“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all -
And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -
I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.
-Emily Dickenson
It’s not an answer to the problem, but sometime little things can get us through dark places.
Urgh - It’s like when you have 40 legitimate reasons for disliking your own mother and your friend criticizes her for her cooking. “Actually, she has been nothing but kind to YOU, and one of the only good traits is her cooking. STFU bitch”
It’s a weird feeling.