Pain is a cold thing that makes your eyes water and leaves you shivering on even the hottest of days. It takes you outside of yourself and leaves your eyes looking down upon your shivering, wretched life with disdain. As your mind’s hand caresses an aching, burnt body, its fingers run gently over scars from years before, and you cringe with self-pity to find that the wound is still there.
A scar on your body is a mark that you have healed and pain has subsided, but there are no outward scars for painful memories, that’s why they are still painfully there.
Pain is a dark shroud that hides you from yourself, and while you are wading and wandering through its maze of tendrils, you can’t help but wonder where you are, how you got there, and above all ponder as you pant and stifle breath with every pound of your heart so that no one can hear you — ponder that lashing, stinging, burning, question: why? It hangs from you like a sagging lump of dead flesh from your chest that pulls life from you until you are at last lost, alone, apart from yourself and dead to yourself and to the world.