[Image ID: The poem “One Source of Bad Information”, by Robert Bly.
There’s a boy in you about three
years old who hasn’t learned a thing for thirty
Thousand Years. Sometime it’s a girl.
The child had to make up its mind
How to save you from death. He said things like:
“Stay home. Avoid elevators. Eat only elk.”
You live with this child, but you don’t know it.
You’re in the office, yes, but live with this boy
At night. He’s uninformed, but he does want
To save your life. And he has. Because of this boy
You survived a lot. He’s got six big ideas.
Five don’t work. Right now he’s repeating them to you.
the paradox of grief where every moment ur by uerself u feel so unbearably miserably alone that its tearing apart evry fiber of ur being but then the second someone's around U it's like even more painful trying to extract something casual or relatable to say out of the tightly woven knot of anguish in ur mind so u must retreat back into solitude again like there's no winning..