The Enticement, Disappointment and Redemption of Green Grass

When I wake up each morning, I usually feel angry. I’m not exaggerating. Three or four days a week I wake up with a sense that my soul is drowning, like I’m 300 feet beneath the ocean surface, on the fringe of complete darkness.

I can vaguely see a place without anger. I can vaguely see some light, but I don’t know how to get to it. I can’t swim. I can’t move.

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