The day is cold and dark and dreary, It rains and the wind is never weary, The vine still clings to the moldering wall, But at every gust, the dead leaves fall, And the day is dark and dreary... The winter rains have begun. The cold wet blew steadily last night, pouring down the panes and collecting in puddles, sounding incessantly on the roof. There is a thought dripping in my mind this morning as well, chilling my mood. It repeats, over and over, with deliberate monotony, the name I call myself after the conversation before sleep, "Failure. Failure. Failure." And I reach for the blanket of shame and retreat behind the barrier of guilt, habitually donning an icy demeanor to keep him at arm's length - The Man who misfortuned to speak the concern that resounded like disappointment in my ears. We have been here before. These cold, wintery days have come in seasons past as well. My prevalent insecurities have made me prone to hear opportunities f...
"These days, the closer she looks at her life, the more beauty she sees. There is something worth noticing everywhere."