Just as all vices become deep-rooted unless they are crushed when they spring up, so, too, such a state of sadness and wretchedness, with its self-afflicted torture, feeds at last upon its very bitterness, and the grief of an unhappy mind becomes a morbid pleasure.
I have heard it said that for every four years one loves another, it takes one year to mourn their loss. I have found running from the mourning process never ends well. I have also found mourning must come to an end at some point or it, too, won’t end well.
Send the love. Send the criticism. Send the suggestions for improvement. Your thoughts are welcome!