There’s this soft peace that can only happen after you’ve cried. After you’ve sobbed good and hard, your chest heaving and little gasping noises escaping your throat as you struggle to remember how to breathe, after everything you feel has been poured out of you in a flood leaving you empty and pure and clean. This peace isn’t happiness or contentment. It isn’t bitter. Sometimes it’s silent, sometimes it’s the sound of Fleet Foxes and Iron & Wine and Stars, or the soothing backtrack of your favorite film.
It’s a little like anesthesia. It numbs some of the pain and doubt, and for a few minutes, you can just be. It’s not forever. It’s an intermission. But for 15 minutes, there’s no nauseous or gnawing fear. It’s not that you feel worthwhile, it’s that you know that nothing is, not your problems or insecurities or fights. Nothing gold can stay, nothing copper or silver or bronze. All fades to rust, and you feel like the book of Ecclesiastes.
And somehow you find hope in this message of hopelessness, or, if not hope, at least strength enough to get up from your sepulcher of pillows and blankets to make yourself a cup of tea. And you drink your tea, and you get back to the job of living.