It’s late. I’m tired.
Sometimes I say nothing and assume that silence is a valid solution to suffering, simply because I can’t bear the thought of anyone else shouldering any more pain and weight. Of course, sometimes I am also mistaken, and I end up contributing to my infinite, suppressed reserve of anger and grief and darkness. At some point, the pain that I’ve shoved down is bound to burst open and explode.
Nothing like falling into the trap of your own mind. I can’t quite fathom how people are able to create elaborate coping mechanisms in order to pull through life—though I know I’ve done it myself, but I can’t remember how. Then again, life shouldn’t be about struggling; it should be about living, right? No… it can’t be that simple. It’s that darn balance, and I’ll be damned if I ever manage to find it.
Or, in the words of Pessoa: “We weary of everything, except understanding.”