Under Pressure

Sometimes I wonder if we are but just disembodied minds, floating around our sea of consciousness, tenuously attached to the physical vessels that we inhabit for our mortal lives.

(mind-body duality)

With the right amount of control, we can manipulate our physical essence to do almost anything. Hence the stories of superhuman feats, the amazing tolerances of the human physique. With enough control, we can ignore the flung spears of pain and sorrow, thrusting on with our lives.

Then my mental image is suddenly shattered by the most tiny of pricks, a little dagger of derision, stabbing close to the heart, severing tendon by miniature tendon of the muscles most intimate.

It is those who we allow close that are able to perpetuate the most insiduous of inside jobs.

(its the terror of knowing what this world is about)

And I am suddenly brought back to reality. The veil of composure is hardest to keep when new wounds are being punctured all the time. A plastered smile but barely covers the scars within, throbbing with pain.

(one, by one, only the good die young)

Who can know what sorrows perpetuate inside? The scars but mark the incision, the wounds fester beneath. All I await is the eventual dulling of the blade, and the healing of the scars they have caused. Or maybe, someday I will be proven to be as good as some people say I am.

Isn't it always easy to blame others? I choose not the simple path. My faults are mine alone, and my sorrow mine alone to bear. I will carry my cross as far as I can go, and as far as I can I will chip away at the edges and wear them away. Someday I will collapse, alone, adrift, and far from shore. But until then, I walk alone, my cross mine alone to bear. Until i find someone willing to carry it with me.

With a stiff upper lip, life carries on.