Don’t look at me like I’m such a fool. Don’t swoon me with your impertinent jokes, tossing poetry to the dogs of pithy laughs. I am sensitive and weak. Right, it is true that I think of myself too lowly, and that my mind often wonders to the foundations of the heart. Let me be, let me curl up here, shrink from those I know and love, let me be unknown by anyone; there is sometimes more comfort in a stranger’s eyes. I’ll wake up to find my purpose. Tomorrow’s light is always better than the evening.
I saw myself dying with a desire to see God, and I knew not how to seek that life other than by dying. Over my spirit flash and float in divine radiancy the bright and glorious visions of the world to which I go. -Saint Teresa of Avila
And as I take a moment to pause from writing this I hear from outside my window the sounds from a struggling young cat, probably defending itself from the grippings of an owl or hawk. It’s night, and the rain has passed. I soon hear a cracking branch finding path-to-ground.
Thought Pressure 