pain pays the income of each precious thing.
if there was only very little to live for, if there was only loneliness and boredom to match this agony i could give up. i wish there was.
but there is so much here, too much i love more than my own life, more than my own suffering. i will burn for them, in this small and terrible, daily way. i will suffer for them and pretend to do so gladly until i am, glad.
and i am still happy as i am tortured, i try to think of this burden as a gift, a test of all this love, something almost as poetic and foolish as i might write.
and i will not fail them and that love.
i float on the waves of pain, and when they crash, roll over me and pull me under i fight back up. i have just enough strength to do that, to push to the surface again, to gasp for breath and settle in for more.
but there is so much here, too much i love more than my own life, more than my own suffering. i will burn for them, in this small and terrible, daily way. i will suffer for them and pretend to do so gladly until i am, glad.
and i am still happy as i am tortured, i try to think of this burden as a gift, a test of all this love, something almost as poetic and foolish as i might write.
and i will not fail them and that love.
i float on the waves of pain, and when they crash, roll over me and pull me under i fight back up. i have just enough strength to do that, to push to the surface again, to gasp for breath and settle in for more.