A Passing Storm, James Tissot, 1876
Is it just a passing storm?
Bad things happen and good things happen. I find no joy in anything, it feels like that the good is given in a gesture of mercy and generosity by some cruel cruel superior being as if it’s supposed to make up for the bad. It can’t though, it just stands there mocking me and my inability to be for once in my life grateful. Nothing is never enough. It will never end and this perspective seems so tiring.