aching, aching, aching always as the days pass.
It is not my pain of wanting, nor my pain of unrest, nor my pain of bitterness, nor of hatred. I know those in all their own anguish.
This aching is another pain. It is a pain that I do not know—that I feel ignorantly but sharply, and, oh, it is torture, torture!
My soul is worn and weary with pain. There is no compassion—no mercy upon me. There is no one to help me bear it. It is just I alone out on the sand and barrenness. It is cruel anguish to be always alone—and so long—oh, so long!
Nineteen years are as ages to you when you are nineteen.
When you are nineteen there is no experience to tell you that all things have an end.
This aching pain has no end.
I feel no tears now, but I feel heavy sobs that shake my life to its center.
