Pain

There's a pain I've carried silently—
unseen, unheard, yet always felt.
A pain so familiar it feels like home.

I’ve chased relief:
traveled miles to outrun it,
cooked meals hoping to warm it away,
turned pages searching for solace,
played melodies on strings,
yet the notes only echoed my ache.

Where does it come from, this pain?
Loneliness, childhood shadows, broken hearts?
Or maybe it just is—
existing without cause,
lingering without invitation.

Sometimes it flares,
pulling me into darkness so heavy
I forget what light felt like.
Other times it retreats,
and for fleeting moments,
I breathe easy, almost free.

I’ve learned to mask it well,
a skill honed over years of solitude—
living alone, working alone,
friends drifting in and out like quiet tides,
their departures gentle,
barely rippling the surface anymore.

Yet here lies the contradiction:
I resent this pain but cherish solitude,
loving the isolation that deepens my ache.
Perhaps the comfort fuels the hurt,
a cycle spinning endlessly,
drawing me inward,
farther from humanity’s embrace.

Strangely, this pain softened my edges,
made me more sensitive to others’ suffering,
tuned my heart to silent battles around me,
yet I stand helpless—
feeling their hurt,
but powerless against my own.

Slowly, it stripped joy from me—
things once vibrant faded,
ambitions dulled, dreams blurred.
Life became serious,
and somewhere along the line,
I stopped feeling much at all.

No joy, no longing, no ambition,
just the relentless ache of powerlessness.
The pain of not wanting "it" anymore—
whatever "it" might mean—
love, hope, or simply life itself.

I carry this silent burden,
unsure how to set it down,
unsure if I even want to.

And maybe, in the quiet truth of it all,
there’s a strange comfort
in knowing this pain is mine,
real, raw, and unspoken—
always there, yet never fully understood.

I find this pain curious—
it consumes me,
and every day I wage a silent war,
a war no one else can see.
At the end of each battle,
I am left weary, tired,
yet strangely fascinated
by the mystery of my own suffering.