How does one accept the unforeseen gift of pain?
Certainly, the creative inventor can feel the spark of pain’s underlying muse. Just as long as the cut is quick, but also deep enough to allow a nice gob of blood to drip down upon the page. Timing is everything, it’s crucial to turn the internal torture into a splendid gift, a gift of suffering.
Maybe, in time such anguish will lead to gratitude. If the scar bearer can conquer and capitalize upon a life of wretchedness, they might possibly yield enough fame and fortune to make the beautiful disaster worth it– as it makes, dollars and cents (or sense), right?
Then again, such “success” could serve as a catalyst to re-open wounds, never allowing for complete healing. The surrounding universe that loves to gawk at grand tragedy, may penetrate the old cut, seeping into the bloodline. Left untreated, the synergetic combination of the world and wound slowly gnaw away the insides. Eventually, all that is left is a shell, hollow within. How sad is an emotionally empty elite suffer genius?
In the cruelest of ironies, the most formative years present the greatest opportunity to produce wonderous misery perfectly matched with passion, hormones, emotions, and enthusiasm only found during the youthful bloom. To add to the spectacular potential, in the young, the previously undiscovered misery and despair is mint, fresh, a virginal first, the purest of maidens.
If only a child or adolescent possesses the ability to verbalize, lyricize, or visualize these internal earthquakes– they could then capture and etch a disturbingly wonderful moment that endures for eternities to come.
Assuredly, all people experience, at some point or another (and again), an encounter with various life discomforts. Like beauty, trauma, also, is in the eye of the beholder.
Under ideal circumstances, almost anything could damage the psyche.
Conceivably, when a first-grade child enrolled in a new school, a number of the little girls might think the new kid is “so cute.” So, the little vixens-to-be grab the boy, hold him down, put their lipstick on, and smatter him with their glorious ruby red kisses. Now, this is certainly a welcome experience to this particular lad, one which he will likely never forget. He has arrived. Then again, often the best dose of reality seems to randomly reveal itself via the hand of surprise physical harm.
In the case of the Rosie-spotted boy, it turns out, an onlooking gang of lads also had a grand welcome in mind. Not to be outdone by the girls, the crew decided to hand-deliver their hospitality too. Yet, instead of bestowing sweet lips of innocence, the little troupe went with a disjointed effort to display their young fu, which consisted of punches in bunches, a little bit of spitting, gouging, twisting, and mocking. Oh, the innocent taunts of the young, learning how to hate, how to hurt, and how to ridicule others with phrases they have heard but likely have not yet discovered the meaning.
“How ya like that faggot?” Whack, boom, pow, bang. “How you like when I beat it out the frame with my cockmaster, you little shit?” Bang, pow, boom, whack.
Obviously, not all experiences are the same.
Possibly, in the grand scheme of life, the adult version of the loved victim reflects upon such a wondrous tale with a reminiscence of glee– as those may have been, by comparison, “the good old days.”
Conceivably, life doles out a long list of character building opportunities such as all those times daddy had to let his fist provide parental guidance to his personal punching bag, his pride and joy? Unmistakably, each and every time one gave daddy no choice but to administer closed hands to the head is memorable, but the surprise of the first time makes it… the tops.
Maybe, the kid’s mommy was also fond of doling beatings which featured fewer fisticuffs and more foreign objects? Silly mommy, over the years, a boy grows too big, acquainted, and the luster of drubbings from a smaller foil lose credible impact. Silly mommy. Nonetheless, Mommy is no dummy, she may recognize evolution’s reality– turning from the cracking to verbal shattering.
Who could ever forget sweet mommy affirming, “I regret the day you were born, you son of a bitch,” right? Such an exceptional long-lasting sting, for a momma’s boy, this could be a pivotal transition to a carefree and soulless life. Of course, momma might have recognized the damage of her words and would always apologize– but to no avail.
If you love a soul, set it free, but don’t expect it to return.
Unfortunately, most youths are ill-prepared to cope with their new lifelong buddy, known as Mr. Misery, the tricky beast that yields emotional anxiety as if it was a strategic saber. Misery does his business, to give a little poke here, a slight jab there, as he blandly whispers, “Oh, you’ll live, but this sh*t is about to get and stay interesting, my friend.”
Such a struggle is already a problematic affliction, therefore, for most adolescents, trying to express an overwhelming generosity of rack’s substantial charity remains a tad bit out of their reach. Such a mysteriously bittersweet tragedy.
Yet, by the time one reaches adulthood, the pains of yesteryear have come to define who ya are. “Look, it’s just another weathered, beaten down, excuse making, wannabe king of pain. Well, get in line, pal– behind all the other once celebrated f*ck trophies turned broken beings with their long list of grievances, hardships, and excuses. Sure, you’re unique, just not all that special. It’s too bad you didn’t bother writing down that really sadly cool story, back when you had the chance. Oh, well, that’s how life goes, right? Perpetually going against you, against me, we’re doomed, we’re damned, but weren’t we always?”
Until the day of one’s death, it is never too late. It can all be turned around, rediscovered, the pain let go– release, release it all. Be shiny, be new. Instead of being what “they” demand, what “they” tried to create– how about… you do you?