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I just read Beauty: When the Dancer is the Self by Alice Walker. And I related to it more than most people do. Which always brings a love-hate relationship. Because as much as it is terrible to be alone, there is a certain beauty that people see you with when your misery is unrelatable and unique. You are a sort of martyr whose enemy is the world. You are struggling against the hardships that the world has put on you, and all anybody can do is watch on the sidelines and be memorized at your beautiful strength. But what about when you are alone? What about when it is three in the morning on a week day, and all the battles have been won, but the war still rages? What about the times when there is nothing wrong except for the fact that you are you; except for the fact that the thorn is still there and you are so consumed by this emotion that you forget that you just need to tell yourself "shut up." That's when these little "miracles" for lack of a better word, happen. You have recovered enough strength to continue on with your life, then you read something, or see something, or hear something, or experience something that makes you cry from joy and bitterness at the irony that God or the universe or whatever you think reigns over from an invisible plain finally gives you this message that you needed earlier, when you were up alone trying to cry yourself to sleep, when you got caught with your wrists bleeding and you were sent to a hospital, when you were trying, hoping, praying, that someone would notice-despite you hiding the signs- before it got out of hand. That's, that is when you are given a sign. That's when you are given a reminder that, hey, you aren't alone in your misery, in any since of the word. That there are 7 million people on this earth and that someone you know, someone within arms reach understands and loves you and will be able to help you. That, is a love-hate relationship the Beauty: When the Dancer is the Self by Alice Walker.