Diluted

On random days you wonder whether you're losing coherence because the world's being mean to you, or if it's just feigned exhaustion starring your overdramatic and very talented adolescence. And sometimes, on more random days, you seek yourself at older times when you were slightly stronger. When the days didn't feel as long as they do now. You hope that somehow you'll pixiedust some patience into you, something that will make things seem easier for you to hold on just a little bit longer because you can't take it anymore.

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My friend once told me that just because I'm going through bigger and heavier kinds of trouble, doesn't make another's pain any less bearable. I'm not talking about the pain you feel after a papercut or a playful pinch or even a badly scraped knee. I mean the slower kind of pain, the one that hurts without foppishly showing it off on skin and scars. The kind you feel as your eyes stroll along the last lines of a book that took good care of you. The same kind you feel when you hope in vain. When you desperately wish for one last chance with them. When they are no longer there to hope for. The pain you feel when you can no longer see yourself as a whole, but as fragile fragments breaking bit by bit and all you can do is wait for the very last piece of you to fall, and you give up.

"I think... If it is true that there are as many heads as there are minds, then there are as many kinds of love as there are hearts."

And I think that there are as many kinds of pain as there are wounds, all kinds of pain derive from hurt, and we all hurt the same.