How I did my best. How I bore the anguish, strived to overcome my impatience, my anger, my hurt. How I meditated, trained my mind, kept finding ways of putting my hurt aside. That was the hardest. That still is the hardest, to put my hurt aside and continue to love. To feel love, to show love, to love despite the indignation, the criticism, the ignoring, the sullen silence that I was tempted toward. So hard. So punishing. I am weary. A failure.
And I? I cannot but love you, despite what you think of yourself. Why, not to adore you would be suicide! I am alive for you and you alone.
Do you not feel my ugliness? My contemptibility? How could you possibly love me as I am, as I feel thus? I can barely stand myself.
Ah flower! Sweet, sweet bud of heaven, raging seas could not match your anger nor thunder explode louder than your frustration, but only those who have eyes and ears to see and feel it could see and feel it. And I happen to have neither.
So you are blind and deaf? And if you are, how can I possibly take seriously your endearing words, your entreaties, your disarming poetry? It is a sham and I want nothing of it!