I saw a wall-hanging inscribed with these words in a cafe this afternoon:
Yesterday is History.
Tomorrow's a Mystery.
Today is a Gift.
Cheesily expressed, I know, but true. It's so hard to remember when you're tired, your neck hurts, and every fibre of your being is crying out for company--but each day is a kind of gift, even if you don't believe in God. Because you could be dead. And one day you will be dying, actively, and you won't be able to walk around in the park in September sun or sit up at the keyboard after midnight trying to write away the long-gone lonesome blues.
Just admit your sadness, son, and don't attach it to any missile that's going to hurt someone else or you some way down the line.
Stand naked in your vulnerability and don't turn it into anger against anybody, not even yourself.