We don’t do this very well in the place I come from. We don’t come together in our pain. We isolate. We insulate. We pretend. We call after the cry. — And as a result, we are flat miserable. We hole away in houses separated by fences or stay stuck in our apartments with alarms carefully set. We don’t tell the whole truth of our pain because it appears that everyone else is doing just fine. They aren’t hurting. In fact, they’re living happy, perfect lives. We decide the problem is probably us. We hide physically because if we aren’t seen, we can’t be known. And if we can’t be known, we can’t be
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