expert at exit

When I am happy, I miss the fire in my soul. I miss the passion and the grasping for answers. I think depression is of the deepest routes to my soul. There is nothing so intimate as suffering. There is nothing so near to the center of my being as suffering. Nothing seems so natural as feeling the genuine pangs of my fallen nature. Pain is where I feel the most comfortable. Ruin is a sort of home to me. Pain makes the most sense to me- it is always cut and dry- I know it's there because it hurts.

But happiness... Happiness is a fragile, flighty thing. Depression is heavy and weighted- and all the more easier to feel it when it's in my hands. But happiness- happiness is a small bird trembling and twitching to escape through my clenched fists. Happiness is a clever bird, an expert at escape, an expert at exit. And when it is gone, I know it. Not as plainly as I know when pain arrives, however.

Pain is a strange driving rain- where there is a sensation of heat and breath and life without even a word being spoken to prove it. Pain is a thick blanket weighted with lead; happiness is a light breeze playing with the hairs on my head and the smile on my face. Who could build a house on happiness? Who could make their home in the drafty fibers of happiness- always stretching and bending and disintegrating with every attempt to domesticate it? No, pain is domestic and stable and faithful. Happiness is a wild, cruel animal. He may pretend to be my pet for a short while, but he is always a stray- I can never keep him. Pain is more kind than any happiness. Pain is always waiting for me to come back, while happiness forgetfully goes on without me. Pain has a strange love for me, while happiness could care less whether or not I exist.