No longer do I recognize a person’s sadness and just sit there with them in that sadness attempting to be a stronghold for them to lean upon. Now the sad, joyous, excited and frustrated reach right down into the very depths of my soul and I become that feeling. Claws of empathy that reach and reach and extend into this place I never knew I had. I read a poem from the point of view of the child writing, the mother reading and the teacher wanting to correct. I read from the standpoint of love and kindness, kindred adoration and an overwhelming need to take away the pain. My old self reads with a cynicism, and at the heartlessness which that may infer, only shows my practiced ability to shut out the feelings which imbibe and overflow from  my every thought and action – and still, there I am. The more I live, the more I relate to a world I never thought I’d understand – the more I so wish I could wipe tears and pain and hold them steady – ecstatically celebrate and lift up – sing melancholy melodies that pour out souls and pour in understanding – pray and begin again.