Memories warm you up from the inside. But they also tear you apart.
A drowning man will clutch at straws.
A dog in desperation will leap over a wall.
The man who lives only by hope will die with despair.
Despair is the damp of hell, as joy is the serenity of heaven.
To be aware of the possibility of the search is to be onto something. Not to be onto something is to be in despair. As always, we take up again where we left off.
But what we call our despair is often only the painful eagerness of unfed hope.
One despairs of others so as not to despair too much of oneself.
In a real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning, day after day.
Like strength is felt from hope and from despair.