At what point is it time to cry or even die? I do not know. Heaviness so suffocating that I cannot
stand. Only hunch and sway under the weight. Now I cry.
At what point is the effort enough?
At what point is it okay to just be crushed, smothered and surrender to
the load? At what point can I die? I do not know. When does society say that is enough? What is acceptable? I do not know. What is the message I send to my child? Can a parent humbled and bent be a good
example? I do not know. The thought of this being how I am remembered
is unbearable. Now I cry. I cry in
shame. I cry in frustration. I cry in pain. I cry in supplication. At times I just cry. Am I weak?
Do I just not have the courage to continue? How much strength is enough? What is the measure? How much can a person bare? I do not know. I just cry in frustration at the questions I
have no answers to. I am afraid of the
message I send to my daughter. The rest
of the world I really do not care about.
In the singular of my family not the plural I could live at the basest
level. I won’t let my daughter live that
way, I cannot. But how much is
enough? I do not know. I only know I will cry in pain as I try. For perhaps trying is the key to the
answer. I will cry in frustration and
anger that there is no answer. I will
cry at the world that is that creates this measure. My muscles ache. My mind is numb. My heart is broken. The string of love that is my daughter is
what holds me together. Small and fine
yet strong beyond measure is that string.
The explosion it prevents is greater than any bomb of man. It is as if the fabric of the world is being
contained. It is that power I also
fear. For without restraint, what would
that power do? I do not know. I tremble to think what it could do with no
care. With no concern for the outcome a
power can do anything. It will take any
risk. It has nothing to loose. How much is enough? I do not know. For now the tears of love that bind me also
hold me in check. The explosion not
released. The power contained. All by a single thread that is my
daughter. For her I cry. What measure will the World ask of her? I fear the answer. Now I cry.again.
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