The problem with feeling sorry for yourself is that one can always find someone who has no legs. My father used to toss out the old cliche once in awhile--"I cried because I had no shoes, and then I met a man who had no legs." True enough, of course. Weariness--like grief or sadness--is relative after all, transitory. We pull out eventually. Most of the time.
Soon enough, it's over. Soon enough it's barely there in the rearview mirror. We pull out eventually. Most of the time.
Maybe that's why this computer of mine has a thousand pictures of the dawn. There will always be another day. Soon enough. Most of the time.
This morning I'm thankful I know that is true.
Most of the time.