To His Glory and Mercy

It wears the edges off the most beautiful thoughts and makes them tarnished with sadness, it permeates the footsteps of the mind, and renders it drunken in its gait, it swallows the lumps of wisdom in the throat, the wisdom that should dominate and help preserve the balance, and chokes instead. It makes the quick of sentiments flame sharply in the weakest spots and clouds the vision with its fires of scorching pain. One sends ones wishes to heal the wounds, but the wounds are too deeply embedded like those of stigma-smitten proselytes unmoveable by logic, indelible and though they fester not, are causers of excruciating pain. I am sure the gods will be making of you an angel, or as you express so much here, a martyr to the cause, what cause? That of empathy and understanding, much needed in all societies at all times for all people. My love Annuccia

he is an incompetent arsehole. I shock myself saying that, you honest poets are liberating me. meow

But it is the terrifying memories that haunt us, the terrifying dreams that haunt us, again and again, they will not die, unless we ourselves make them do so, this IS possible, one can cut them out. And here in Joe's case those dreams are brought into the present by repetition of the very same symptoms that will eventually lead to the same terrifying experiences, then it is a far more difficult thing to just say, cut them out, isn't it? We have a certain amount of control over our minds thoughts but this requires help in most cases, the eastern sages say meditate, it is a kind of meditation of suggestion to the self, where one can push the memories out of the line of sight so to speak, and in so doing cut them from the immediate perception. How we wish you could do that, but it takes a particular type of mind concentrating on that for some time to achieve success and well I don't know if its possible in these special circumstances, having the same malady is enough to focus the mind always on the bad memories, distractions can help, but on ones own there are none of these so possible either. So damned positive it is hard to be when in the middle of troubles one cannot see the sky for clouds. Would that we all could blow so hard that we cleared the sky of all clouds and give you the pure blue of the sky to shield you from your memories dear Longobardolino. Love from your Annuccia And the peace of the calm seas, of the still blue skies, of the gently falling streams, of the wide open shining lakes. This peace I slide on the surface of the earths heart, its aura of oxygen, to give you a peaceful feeling within the furious turmoil, the innermost peace that is unrockable and fixed, your self.