For Feel-good Fiction To Work, There Has

Why Do We Have Such A Finite Capacity For Pleasure But An Infinite One For Pain?

It Was Only When The Salt Water Of My Tears Ran Into My Cuts And Made Them Sting That I Discovered I Was Crying.

Besides, I'd Seen A Really Nice Pair Of Shoes Yesterday In The Mall And I Wanted Them For My Own. I Can't Describe The Feeling Of Immediate Familiarity That Rushed Between Us. The Moment I Clapped Eyes On Them I Felt Like I Already Owned Them. I Could Only Suppose That We Were Together In A Former Life. That They Were My Shoes When I Was A Serving Maid In Medieval Britain Or When I Was A Princess In Ancient Egypt. Or Perhaps They Were The Princess And I Was The Shoes. Who's To Know? Either Way I Knew That We Were Meant To Be Together.

People Get Sick And Sometimes They Get Better And Sometimes They Don't. And It Doesn't Matter If The Sickness Is Cancer Or If It's Depression. Sometimes The Drugs Work And Sometimes They Don't. Sometimes The Drugs Work For A While And Then They Stop. Sometimes The Alternative Stuff Works And Sometimes It Doesn't. And Sometimes You Wonder If No Outside Interference Makes Any Difference At All; If An Illness Is Like A Storm, If It Simply Has To Run Its Course And, At The End Of It, Depending On How Robust You Are, You Will Be Alive. Or You Will Be Dead.

You Know What It's Like. Sometimes, You Meet A Wonderful Person, But It's Only For A Brief Instant. Maybe On Vacation Or On A Train Or Maybe Even In A Bus Line. And They Touch Your Life For A Moment, But In A Special Way. And Instead Of Mourning Because They Can't Be With You For Longer, Or Because You Don't Get The Chance To Know Them Better, Isn't It Better To Be Glad That You Met Them At All?