There are days when I want to write about difficulties and defeat. Today, I wake up to prepare for the Sunday worship. Today, I cried some more before taking a bath and while praying. I spent most of the day performing: doing what is expected, resting and talking. The other self, the battered one, the one who wants to write about difficulties and defeat, is left inside my room. She is left resting on my bed, occupying spaces where I would eventually return.
The struggle for peace and acceptance, the need to be understood and to be loved, the desire to be respected. These things are simple, shallow even. Still, I mourn for them. To be stripped off these simple and shallow needs is enough to cause tremor that can lead to a collapse.
Most days, I do not let the tremor destroy me, I pull myself together and stop myself from crumbling all together. Most days are good. But most days do not last. They too, succumb to the little hurts.