The trouble is when you enjoy the pain more than the pleasure.

I told her. How I felt. In my usual hold-it-back come-what-may style. Of course, it led to the expected response (zero) which in some way is what I wanted. To slash myself across the stomach with a sentence, and let the foul foetus of self-loathing crawl out spilling its insipid blood across the carpet before dying, unloved and unwanted, barely a stain on the footprints of life rushing past.

Some class themselves as seekers after truth. I’m just a seeker after pain. At least it’s real and lets you feel something. Anything. Maybe that’s all life is: a desperate attempt to feel.