You are broken, unsure if you will ever be whole. I feel it too; I’ve felt it. The daily battle with your own mind. The oppressive burden of thinking, of feeling too much. Of not caring enough. We try to patch up our wounds with scraps scrounged from the wreckage our lives — try and try again, reliving the process of trial and error until we die of it. The repetition, the mundanity, the futility of it all: felt in every movement, spoken through every sigh. The wholeness of mind and soul that you long for — this may never be ours. No matter how long or far we chase it, what we swallow to feel it. We have seen truths lost to the whole. And perhaps that is our purpose: to know it. To tell it.