it feels like the shingles are being blown off the roof of my heart. the cold wind is whipping around inside and stirring up different corners of dust.
[my dustpiles]
=fear
=hopelessness
=worry for others
=past being replayed
=

its whipping around my face and stinging my eyes.
evil crouches at our doors. our doors of hope. it cant be on the other side; it has to try to just block us from walking through.
how hard to hold grief and let it be, while not letting evil blind the way over the threshold. evil holds these phantom doors up, these doors that strangely resemble dust. its not too hard to do, when the wind of pain is utilized.
what we cant forget is- painful wind can be clearing and healing. the dust whips and buffets my self. and leaves soft vulnerability. it stings my eyes; i find relief in tears. and i know and believe hope now. because its seen clearly.