Whispering Whimpers of a Wounded Soul

Whispering Whimpers of a Wounded Soul

"Tiền Bối ơi !... Quả đất mang trên mình vạn vật, sinh linh - tưởng chừng nhẹ nhàng, an tịnh - hóa ra cũng chỉ thoảng qua... Chính giữa lòng mình, trái đất vẫn luôn sục sôi, cuộn trào chất ngất - Tưởng có thể cuốn phăng đi hết bao trầm uất, muộn phiền, ngùi ngậm, đau thương...
  Những vết khoan, vết cắt - những bợn nhơ mà cuộc đời vẫn hằng trút lên mình... là những dấu gai thành sẹo trong hồn, chẳng thể liền da !..."

What do you make of the following utterances:

"Oh dear forefathers!...This planet is teeming with a variety of life...I thought I could dwell in peace, but even the peace turned out to be evanescent. Inside me, things are still boiling to the brim. I thought I was able to throw away and cast aide the hurts and pains.

But the hurts and pains---and the detritus life keeps piling up on me--are the scars of my soul, making it wrinkled."

I didn't write the original Vietnamese words above. They came from a  poet. I was touched by the whispering whimpers of a wounded soul. I used to whimper, cry, complain about the desolate landscape of my life. Maybe I still do, but I doubt it. I have become more cynical and stronger. My compassion is more selective. There is a gradual hardening of my heart and I am not proud of that. But what I can say? I don't like to be a sucker. Compassion has to be earned and deserving. Assholes and scumbags would abuse and take advantage of indiscriminate compassion. Of course, I am talking here about my own version of compassion. I do know compassion, by its very nature, is encompassing and indiscriminate. 

I have to learn to get rid of the cancerous, festering anger which is eating at my soul.