Where are you going? My old flame, please don’t stray too far from me, your creator. Or am I? My suffering, much like a child it is. In a sense, it came from me, I created it but does it nurture me or do I nurture it? In many ways it’s the only thing I have that is truly mine, it belongs to me. And much like a child it has drained me of resources, energy and identity. Yet I did create it. What remains in the absence of suffering? You might say, oh! Happiness! I however am consumed with worry and trepidation.
My suffering, you see, was a guide of sorts. I know how to behave under its command. It envelops me with a warm blue glow and my reaper by my side to usher me here and guide me there. I simply out stretch my empty hand, I stare in the mirror and under its spell, I am in a transcendent trance. I crawl on my floor, I play with my pills and welcome ethereal surrender. How far can I take it? I think of my mother, I mourn my father, I hear my sister. She knows something I fear I’ll never know. What am I made of? Fear, arrogance, skin and however many bones. My structure, it’s temporary. All of it. So everyday I choose to abandon this body.
I’ve got a big brain and a feeble heart. It’s all temporary anyways. I’ve become a master seductress, yet again I owe it to my reaper. I knock ‘em down one by one. They love my body, they fear my mind. My reaper, always resting at my back gently informing me as to what to say, how to gaze and how to touch. I feel in control, it’s fun to manipulate, to play. They move on, they’re all fleeting and then I find solace in being alone. My books inform my personality, they rest next to my altar. It’s not to feel the presence of God, but to be reminded of the important influence suffering has over me.
Suffering tells me who I am, it finishes my sentence before I even speak. Some would say to overcome pain is noble, but for me the absence of it is silence, and it’s too quiet. Does it equate to peace or just emptiness? Even so, many would say that emptiness is happiness but I say it’s betrayal. It robs me of my rituals and forces me to mourn my identity rather than create a new one. I find comfort in the predictability of my suffering, even if the predictability leads to my own ruin. So as I move through the real world, I’m perpetually paranoid.
Ask me to describe myself, oh why can’t we be honest with one another? I’d tell you of this suffering, I’d introduce you to my reaper. I’m obsessive, I’m grieving, I’m anxious, I’m depressed. I’m excited but not for life. And yet is this what it looks like when illness has overstayed its welcome? It hangs its pictures on my walls and leaves its toothbrush in my bathroom and its laundry is in my basket. Until one day I can’t tell which belongings are theirs and which are mine.
And should I be frightened that pain and suffering has changed me? No, not at all. That’s the thing about pain, it’s not honest but it's persistent, cunning. So healing won’t look like simply feeling better but rather becoming a stranger to myself; to recognize my own name. But I can’t say goodbye to him, my dark cloaked figure of a friend. And so there is new suffering, one where I can’t abandon the darkness that delights me.
