Woa is me. Whoa is me.

Hope and imagination are the only consolations for the disappointments and sorrows of experience.
Italo Calvino

Ah, the sorrows of experience. It invokes the adage of it is better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all. The pain and torment that comes from some experiences that wrenches your soul and forces you to scream out…MERCY! You search for a sanctuary, but you cannot hide from your soul. You can shut it up momentarily, but at some point, dolefulness will seep into your bones and muscles until you can no longer ignore the melancholy that is soon to absorb you. You will be forced to scream out, Woe is me!

But at some point, does not the dismal turn bright. Even if only temporary. Does the pain ever lessen? Does it ever quietly concede control and slink back into the depths until another moment requires its personality?