I think we’re are wired to enjoy pain, to crave it, to hold on to it. I’m not talking about physical pain, I’m talking about that intangible pain, that soul sucking black hole that eats you from within, those little demons we keep close, because we’ve grown up together. Pain moves us, whether is ours or not; makes us feel alive. Pain dares us to point the finger, to defy the silent peace we pretend to lead.
“Why do I keep hitting myself with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop.”
Sighs. I should be happy now, I mean I’m working towards something that excites me, something that I enjoy doing. A sorta breaking of a shell if you want. But I don’t, I’m sad (to try and put it into words).
I’m not saying that I don’t want to do this, or that I feel it’s not worth it or whatnot. It has nothing to do with this. It’s like being surrounded by a dark cloak that overwhelms and brings me down.
Looking outside from a glass box, untouchable, seeing everyone. But they can’t see me. The others can’t see me.