I've more been working on embracing the pain that comes, but not seeking more than comes naturally. Pain reminds me I'm alive and since I'm alive I still have the ability to change things; but pain is not something I enjoy, it just is. A reminder of the good, a reminder of the bad, the lessons from both - pain just is. At least, that's what I tell myself these days.
I can't drink when things are getting to me. The alcohol tastes more bitter, more vile; disgusting on my tongue that I would wretch and spit it out. I don't get how it can be comfort in bad times, only it's own joy as the music plays. Drugs are wastes of money doing little better than a quiet room with headphones on blasting euro, dance, classical, baroque, romantic, metal, and jazz into the deepest recesses of my mind. My vice is inaction, my vice is a void, a void I weep over within yet cannot fill. Substitutes always hurt more than the lack; fuck them all, let the dark silence be.
Love, what is that? While bored scholars and jobless philosophers debate the thing to death how many bother with the experience? How long will I question whether I've felt it? How long will I question others feeling it towards me? And why do I cry when others express it to each other?