whats the point of writing? i ponder as i write.
to have personal problems being let loose for the whole world to see, a disgrace for some and yet for others, a means to draw comfort and concern from friends reading it. in concern, can anything be done to solve the existing problem? or is concern and comforting words merely a way to spread rose petals over the grave? a way to shut the eye from the ugly and distressed? to turn the attention to the beauty of a rose?
however beautiful a rose is, thorns are found. within the words of comfort spoken, thorns that prick the heart and set the tears trickling brings one back to reality of the problem.

things that should not be spelled out should always be kept silent.
in silence, there is woe and hope.