It is a lonely thing, to feel.
To feel the weight of the world fall heavy on weak, slumped shoulders; the beautiful weight of mouths to feed and hearts to love.
How can a man keep his head up when life is so damn full of sorrows and pains? How does a man keep moving when it hurts to live? When every moment is a burden – another source of guilt and grief?
How can he escape the memories and the fears; of damnation and condemnation, of failures and fuckups – when he is haunted by the dogged pursuit of the Southern Hound, held captive within his over-active mind; how can he escape? How can he fight an enemy who lives within? How can he believe when faith has been stolen from him, when his capacity for belief has been acid-burned from his mind?
His soul is ash, his hope’s dissolved within the tonic his culture’s hubris; “pursuit of happiness” his Lilly-white ass.
He rages when all he wants to do is sleep. He loathes when he longs with all his being to love and be loved. He is a dead-man walking, eaten by his own sad zombie self.
What does it have to hurt so fucking much?