Empty Bottles Full of Stories

by R.H. Sin

It hurts . . . of course it does, because we were made to hurt. To feel. To try to understand even when we know we cannot. It hurts . . . of course it does, and at times, we won’t know what to say, but we will try even if the words are hard to project. It hurts . . . of course it does, to watch you, the people we care about go through hell and not having the power to heal them the way we should. It hurts . . . of course it does, to breathe memories, the ones that take you back to a place when it all made sense. Where the fire of pain was smaller than it is now. It hurts . . . of course it does, as it always does. When love isn’t enough, strong enough to save the one you need. It hurts . . . of course it does. The solitude. The ache. The longing to be understood and the craving of human interaction . . . of touch, of laughter, and watching it slip before our naked eyes. My dear, it hurts, all of it, of course it does . . . And the wounds are deep enough, they always are. And they will always hurt a little more than before. My dear, it hurts, believe that you cannot outrun this. Abandon this. Destroy this pool of feelings. Understand, how pain is the curse that will tear you apart but also, the blessing that will bring us all closer together. Understand that sometimes life isn’t beautiful. That sometimes life is hell but we’d rather feel the chaos than feel nothing at all.