“I am an old man and have known a great many troubles, but most of them never happened” — Mark Twain.
There is a woman in my village darling know as the worrier — not a warrior but a worrier.
You must know the kind darling, such people are the ones who will worry about everything. They concoct the worst scenarios the minute they perceive a threat in the air.
The worrier in my village is a frail looking woman; rail thin and with bony fingers skimming her lips whenever she is daydreaming about the bad things that can happen.
The worrier in my village is a frail looking woman
Whenever I see her she always reminds me of a spider — long and lean and lonely, donning black and weaving intricate scenarios that only add to her worries.
She knows that what she is doing is a waste of a life darling. I have told her what Mark Twain has said countless times but she is still stuck in her black and white world, where bad things do not really happen except in her head.