At twenty-one:

unadulterated, emotional pain is a repugnant cuisine I have very much unwillingly consumed.

This kind of pain has a standstill effect on you. Once settled, it re-acquaints you with your every breath. Your heart becomes a ticking bomb against your chest. The ground beneath your soles suddenly gives and every step forward is a fickle attempt not to spill over your body. It leaves you with a lingering awareness of yourself but chokes you with the detachment from not belonging.

Nobody really knows or really understands what you are feeling. No-one prepares themselves until they are dumped there too. There’s no real dramatic breakdown.

There’s nothing.

However long pain comes to stay for at the time, it always, always feels like it will never end. Pain comes from entrenched wounds; that leave scars. And I’ve learnt that the act of tending to these wounds require:

  1. A love for God
  2. A belief that things will work out well
  3. An understanding that he knows better.

So in the end, I carry on with the words of Kahlil Gibran:

On Pain

Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.

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