Pope Jon wrote:
Life is pain.
I'm kinda assuming I'm supposed to also say why, and since I don't want a flood of messages asking me if I'm okay, I'll explain a little more.
Sure, sometimes the pain in life holds you back and hurts you. Most of the time, it's unpleasant and makes you dread being alive. It's rarely a good thing, and it's rarely something you want to experience again.
But I've that sometimes pain is so important, and can be a good thing.
Physical pain means you're still alive. It means your body hasn't given up yet, and you shouldn't either. Your body goes through pain so that you kind find a way to survive. So that you can learn from a mistake you made, or so that you can deal with that pain better in the future.
Emotional pain means you still care. When you heart is broken, or your mind scarred, you have the choice to let it destroy you. The pain is there for the same reasons it's there physically: to encourage you to survive and show you the error of your ways. Sadly, many people don't understand when to try something different or to move on, and so the pain keeps coming back.
There are times when I actually pursue pain. The only time I see pain as truly good is when the pain is brought on for someone else. Every once in a while, pain is a consequence of the greatest sign of love: sacrifice.
So when I say that life is pain, it's not because I'm suffering and need help, it's because I've identified the reality that is set before me, and I'm not afraid of it.
Chuck C. wrote:
Organized, beautiful Chaos.
Dan Christmann wrote:
Well, I would probably say something about the unbearable paradoxes of life, its joys and its sorrows sometimes wrapped together in the same moment, its fleetingness, its length, the incredible intoxication and lightness that comes with the climax of a single idea and the dullness, the sedation incarnate in the limbs when you realized the relative impossibility of actualizing it. It would be a chronicle of angst, a lifelong struggle of the mind and body to break free of their inner constraints and go sailing across the void of greatness and also possibly of space as I, the first professional playwright to travel to mars, chronicles the journey of the species as it reaches ever and ever forward into the unknown. It would be a story of love, and of appetites, of food and joy on the dusty sands of the red frontier. It would be a story of tragedy, losing your only children to oxygen sickness, of endless wastes and solitude. Gasping upward through the thin atmosphere, my story would touch planets as it died, frozen, gas giants all, as its soul traveled ever outward past the reaches of our knowledge, finally fading as it finds a cold embrace in the arms of the universe.
But three words aren’t very many, so instead, I’ll settle with “Baby got back” and leave it at that.
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