The hard part's just living. Blown by winds 'til you feel the colors have been ripped clean out of life. You bend low, near to breaking, and how can this be beautiful? This life smelling of war and rage, and burning dreams—lost jobs and no money in the bank account, unpaid hospital bills and cars that won't start. Broken windows, crying, hungry children, and how is this supposed to be holy?
I hear you. And the blackened sorrow of it all.
The beauty is in what you make of it. Because all beautiful things are a result of the ugly. The beauty is in what you make of the ugly.
I can cry and I can wail and say, “Life's not fair.” But you cannot make something beautiful by returning ugly for ugly. It's all in what you make of it, how you look at it. For every good thing, there's a thousand ways to make it ugly. But for each ugly thing, there's a thousand ways to see the beauty.