Keeping in mind the snobbery and discomfiture of lesser mortals, I must say pain is a rum thing. As I can’t pride myself on being particularly soused, the choice of this expression might not make it to the top drawer. Nevertheless, I’ll stick to my expression; it smells better than fetid intellectual oeuvre.
Now, of all my blasted sensations, why do I keep rambling on being pained? And, of course, why so much fuss on its being a rum thing? The first question is actually an extension to my queer character. I have always been someone who rather easily succumbs to pain, or so I have been told. It only fits most convincingly into the puzzle that is me. I eat, drink [only water] and make merry to enjoy paroxysms of pang. I agree, it’s convenient and useless and mostly self-inflicted.
I said 'rum thing' with no intention of weaving a clever pun. It has just been an expression that loosely describes the inner dichotomy of the fact of me being pained. Shoving a certain Thomas Jefferson of the previous sentence, the dichotomy actually touches the nerve-centre of this slightly eccentric piece. The happiness of distress is something that is quite akin to my nature, I am told. It’s a perverse pleasure, my friends constantly remind me. However, this pleasure is not without an obvious affliction. The feeling of being in the deepest pit for some silly reasons, and may be for some great ones, is of paramount significance to a withering soul. Withering, I say, because it survives on small things, fickle promises and devil knows what! It is unreasonable and taxing to the ones I love, I understand perfectly. Yet, the bouts of severe depression, even the easy solutions of anti-depressants fail to revive the dying bits of my soul. My fault, entirely.
This paragraph intends to dole out a little apology to the wrong notions I may have conveyed in my insecure moments. By nature, I am not a despot. I prefer not to change my friends and foes; I love them or hate them as they are. Perhaps in some corner of my subconscious there lives a pampered little brat, who makes fuss over trivial things like having a drink or smacking a goodfellow. I have decided not to give indulgence to this pestilential little devil. If there is any sort of agony from now on, I shall stomach it. It’ll save the day, err, the night of my loved ones.
Taking a cue from the epitaph of a poet who wrote the most boring epic in the history of mankind, I am going to sing of shepherds, fields and heroes from now on. At least, they don’t manipulate the contour of thoughts in fruitless agony.
