To lose the soul's home and to wander far and then be unable to find anything else, and feel that one's forgotten what truth is, and fancy one is made of nought but lies, be sickened by oneself and hate oneself - yes, that is easy, that is very easy. Sorrow is easy, but joy is proud and hard, for joy, it is the simplest thing of all.
But he that seeks for himself a home must not believe that it exists just anywhere - he must go wandering homeless for a time; and he that's made of lies and would be well, must hate himself until the day he knows of truth what others as a gift receive. What point is there in grieving so for it? Wait then, my heart, and have some patience yet!
HOMELESS by Karin Boye
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