I am a Jonathan Safran Foer paragraph

• when sadness takes another form
• of longing and loneliness
• of escapes and forgetting
• when confusion is a necessary good
• in which I cannot stop writing
• but I must

Does it break my heart, of course, every moment of every day, into more pieces than my heart was made of, I never thought of myself as quiet, much less silent, I never thought about things at all, everything changed, the distance that wedged itself between me and my happiness wasn't the world, it wasn't the bombs and burning buildings, it was me, my thinking, the cancer of never letting go, is ignorance bliss, I don't know, but it's so painful to think, and tell me, what did thinking ever do for me, to what great place did thinking ever bring me? I think and think and think, I've thought myself out of happiness one million times, but never once into it.

So many words in the English language and yet, they still manage to fail you at the most opportune moment. You may be interested to read this.

And then I came across The History of Love to find that "When will you learn that there isn't a word for everything?" which greatly reminded me of my e-mail signature from two years ago, "Do not the most moving moments of our lives find us all without words?" 


There's a moral to this, I swear! Or I can always say "Deja poo! I've heard this crap before!" but something tells me enough is enough, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and get your act together."