The Hurting Kind

Once, I was brave, but I have grown so weary of danger. I am soundlessness amid the constant sounds of war.

I like to call things as they are. Before, the only thing I was interested in was love, how it grips you, how it terrifies you, how it annihilates and resuscitates you. I didn’t know then that it wasn’t even love that I was interested in but my own suffering. I thought suffering kept things interesting. How funny that I called it love and the whole time it was pain.

We are talking about how we carry so many people with us wherever we go, how, even when simply living, these unearned moments are a tribute to the dead.

To be swallowed by being seen. A dream. To be made whole by being not a witness, but witnessed.

I’m almost certain, though I am certain of nothing. There is a solitude in this world I cannot pierce. I would die for it.