What Matters Most is How Well You Walk Through the Fire

by Charles Bukowski

in the sun and in the rain and in the day and in the night pain is a flower pain is flowers blooming all the time.

I wish to weep but sorrow is stupid. I wish to believe but belief is a graveyard.

I am just speaking to myself and this is the medium through which I speak. still, if somebody reads this and your day and your night were akin to mine, then somehow we’ve touched, strange brother or sister, and we both understand that death is not the tragedy. you are alone and I am alone and it’s best that we aren’t together comparing our pitiful sorrows.

things get bad for all of us, almost continually, and what we do under the constant stress reveals who/what we are.