Cracking open the inner world, writing even a couple of

pages in my diary, threw me back into depression, not

made easier by the weather, two gloomy days of rain.

I was attacked by a storm of tears, those tears

that appear to be related to frustration, to buried anger,

and come upon me without warning.  I woke yesterday so

depressed that I did not get up till after eight.

I feel inadequate.  I have made an open place, a

place for meditation.  What if I cannot find myself inside?

I think these pages are a way of doing that.

_______________________________________

Paraphrases from the memoir Journal of a Solitude by May Sarton.

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