Why am I not in bed yet? After a friend's comment, I decided to rename my blog... "What's Wrong With Me?" is not my predominant question in life anymore. (I'm feeling much better, haha.) For some reason, a poem by Emily Dickinson came to mind:
HOPE is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I ’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.