Strangely I heard a stranger say: I am with you.

I am currently reading the diary of Etty Hillesum.  Here are some parts that say some things I wish I could say but that seem unsayable:

"Life is composed of tales waiting to be retold by me.  Oh, what nonsense -- I don't really know anything.  I am unhappy again.  I can quite see why people get drunk or go to bed with a total stranger."

"But why do I have to achieve things?  All I need to do is to 'be,' to live and to try being a little bit human."

"We occasionally throw each other crumbs of information about ourselves, but I don't think we understand each other."

"I hope for, and at the same time I dread, the day that I shall be completely alone with myself and with a blank sheet of paper.  Then I shall do nothing but write."

And finally:

"There is a strange little melody inside me that sometimes cries out for words.  But through inhibition, lack of self-confidence, laziness, and goodness knows what else, that tune remains stifled, haunting me from within.  Sometimes it wears me out completely.  And then again it fills me with gentle, melancholy music.

Sometimes I want to flee with everything I possess into a few words, seek refuge in them.  But there are still no words to shelter me.  That is the real problem.  I am in search of a haven, yet I must first build it for myself, stone by stone.  Everyone seeks a home, a refuge.  And I am always in search of a few words.

Sometimes I feel that every word spoken and every gesture made merely serve to exacerbate misunderstandings.  Then what I would really like is to escape into a great silence and impose that silence on everyone else."

Then, at age 29, the Nazis murdered her.