In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart, until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

In our sleep, pain which cannot forget falls drop by drop upon the heart until, in our own despair, against our will, comes wisdom through the awful grace of God.

Forgiveness is a heartache and difficult to achieve because strangely, it not only refuses to eliminate the original wound, but actually draws us closer to its source. To approach forgiveness is to close in on the nature of the hurt itself, the only remedy being, as we approach its raw centre, to reimagine our relation to it.

Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire

[. . .] radiant dreams are passing in the night,
the memories throb with sorrow, joy with pain . . .
it is pain to dream and see desires
slip through the arms,
a vision lost for ever
winging down the moving drifts of sleep.

Happiness was but the occasional episode in a general drama of pain.

That sadness that you do not speak of,
that haunts you in the ache of midnight.
Give it to me.
I want to heal that.

What I did not know was how longing could store itself away in the hollows of one's bones and then one day without warning flood out.

In visions of the night, like dropping rain,
Descend the many memories of pain

Then the pain of loss leaped out on me, like a knife in the night when one has been on one’s guard all day.

We believe slowly when belief brings pain.

Pain’s power relies on surprise.
If you expect it, it’s weaker.
If you choose it, it’s gone.

Pain is surprising; we cannot understand why we have been abandoned in love... why we are unable to sleep at night.... Identifying reasons for such discomforts does not spectacularly absolve us of pain, but it may form the principal basis of a recovery. While assuring us that we are not uniquely cursed, understanding grants us a sense of the boundaries to, and bitter logic behind, our suffering. 'Griefs, at the moment when they change into ideas, lose some of their power to injure our heart.' - Proust

The blood of love welled up in my heart with a slow pain.