Everything ends. And in the end there’s always so much pain… Sometimes I wonder how it is even possible to get through without losing a part of sanity. Or soul… Every instance of pain hardens me, like blisters from a shovel harden the palms of one’s hands. I’m disintegrating in heartache – never to be assembled in quite the same way. Each time something goes missing – something soft and tender, something of the quality of childhood laughter.
Every following time I encounter pain, another – different – spot of my unsheltered flesh chips off… And I’m left to observe – in astonishment – how former vulnerability transforms into the cold shield of experience. Struggling through pain robs me of yesterday’s precious sensitivity – and I can’t see any longer: did I get stronger or am I just dead inside?
I’m suffering. Well, big surprise – who doesn’t? But how come it seems that I – unlike the many optimistically coupling and striving for closeness – through suffering lose the very ability to love?
Am I just dead inside?
Who killed me? And why?
