Really? Would it hurt us if life were a tiny bit easier sometimes? Would we be permanently scarred if we had to say goodbye a few less times? I’m sure it would be a horrific thing if loneliness didn’t try to devour your hope on solitary moonlit nights. And I’m sure we will all be much better off for all the tears shed past the ache in our chests as we stare at the ceiling late at night.
It is because of love. (I can think of no word laden with enough emotion to express how I feel about love without using profanities). If I didn’t love you, it wouldn’t hurt when you turn and stroll away. If I hadn’t let this place or this time creep into my heart, it would be ten times, no a hundred times, easier to walk on without a backward glance.
So it would appear that the cure would be to become a robot of sorts, a man of steel. Store it all in a forgotten recess. Do not let others in. Keep your walls double thick. If only you knew the pain inside my walls. Maybe you did before you constructed such an excellent mask. I like the handiwork. It looks a part of your real face. Not that I could ever know what your real face looks like...
Or love all the more and embrace the pain like a sadistic man who has already lost everything. To love all, to take the world’s pain as your own. I don’t know that there are enough tears in all the earth for that kind of abandon. Someone who really did love everyone would be mauled, probably killed. I’d throw the first punch. Maybe it’d ease the pain behind my own wretched walls.
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