‘you may say, this is my poison,’ she said.
‘i think, you already know mine,’ i said.
‘…?’ she said.
‘pain.’ i said.
pain is boring. and the knowledge that it will not go away, ever, is boring, too.
pain bores through my bones, and head, and creates this everlasting background of… well, pain. from almost ok, to nauseating, and back again. it feeds on the weather changes, and magnetic storms, and the mundanity itself. it can be diminished, but it cannot be made to leave. one gets used to the chronic pain, as much as it is humanly possible.
and then, there is the other pain, the acute, accidental pain. the accidental hitting of the inconvenient corner. the unexpected fall or burn. the pain that can be controlled one way or another.
and that pain is close to a narcotic.
i have noticed that when the darkness of my inside nuclear reactor becomes one big void of mute pain, i tend to dive into asphalt, walk into walls or get stuck in ovens, or otherwise get hurt.
the accidental pain balances the inner void, and i become sane again. the accidental pain clarifies my mind marvellously.
maybe this is my insanity, a private underside of the world tree, complete with a doomsday wolf, poisonous snake in chains, and terrible, unbearable cold.
pain uses me for a host.
i use pain for a narcotic balance in a broken world.
it seems we are quits.
* this was created partly in response to the poem here