It’s Difficulty, and not the Pain, That Makes the Wounded Child Hold It’s Bloody Hand Above Its Head

Sometimes it’s difficult to admit I know exactly what is happening, and that I know things can always get worse.

I think this is because Joy has got its suction cups wrapped so tightly around me and dug itself into me so deeply anything that isn’t it feels like I’m drowning in chocolate milk.

I write in the early morning in order to prove to myself that anything is possible to make time for, even me, even wanting to be me,

and sometimes I even manage to fall upward through the sky of my dreams, where I talk to the stars through a black hole of uncertainty I can always count on to give me what I want.

I mean, why wouldn’t I want to live beyond the suffering world, where sun storms of happiness and hopefulness are the perfect antidote for a case of being a pain in my own ass?

I tell myself that when I can’t focus or set boundaries and get mad at the government for only knowing how to tell truths that are round and smooth and so won’t hurt as much, it’s because I just need to spend a little more time thinking before acting, and that pain is still something I think I can remove from my life like a sliver from the tip of a finger,

like honesty will finally take care of it.

But you can’t remove pain from the tip of your life without also removing pleasure from it. That’s what makes it so hard to live with.

I think it’s that difficulty, that loss of innocence, that determined intelligence, and not the pain itself, that makes the wounded child hold its bloody finger up in the air above its head as if to give it reluctantly to God, and cry like a mother who just lost her child to an invisible and unstoppable force.

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