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It’s always a shock, when you’ve been hit by some calamity, to see the world go about its business with perfect indifference.
What really matters in real life, though, is how far you’re prepared to go and how quickly.
Pain can stay the same while you change around it. And, like a thumb of constant size, what it blocks out depends on how close it gets to you. At arm’s length a thumb obscures a small fragment of the day. Held close enough to your eye it can blind you to everything that matters, relegating the world to a periphery.
They say it’s good to share, but in the end, whatever anyone says, we face the real shit alone. We die alone and on the way we shed our attachments.
The beauty and the silliness, and how one piece fitted with the next, and how we all dance around each other in a kind of terror, too petrified of stepping on each other’s toes to understand that we are at least for a brief time getting to dance and should be enjoying the hell out of it.
Truth may often be the first casualty of war, but dignity is definitely the first casualty of disease.
Because ugliness multiplies, and hurt spills over into hurt, and sometimes good things are just the fuel for evil’s fire.
