Читать книгу INCANDESCENCE - Nadia Rexler - Страница 2

From the moment we are born, we learn to mask pain. Cooed and coddled by our mothers, who place band-aids and kisses over our scratches. Being brave like our fathers, who appear to never cry. Medicated by our doctors, when the mask breaks under the intense pressure of pretending. Our surroundings teach us the only acceptable place for pain is in the deep dark corners of our minds. Abandoned, suppressed and out of reach where it can't be a burden to our loved ones.

When we are troubled, we use the pain, or rather the years of suppressing it, as an excuse for doing bad things. Preferentially, to instill sympathy into an audience who have the power to promote us into a better life. It's a key to open doors, a lug wrench to change a tire, a pen to write our thoughts with, pain is a tool; we use it but never do we simply, feel it.

Instead, it's the good times which truly plague us. It's the song on the radio which used to be your favorite, but you can't bear to hear it anymore. The restaurant with the best food you've ever tasted, but you won't step inside again. It's your warmest, comfiest sweater which hides in the back of your closet, while you shiver in a sub-par replacement. Why? Because happiness is to blame. Your broken femur wouldn't have existed if it weren't for your love of climbing trees. You could still wear your favorite sweater if only you could wash out the memories.

The memory of the painful incident on impact is stored away, in some dusty old file cabinet, in a locked room you lost the key to. The only accessible fragment is happiness. Short moments before the tragedy, passive-aggressively polluting our minds with its gentleness while reminding us of our naivety. Haunting us like the friendly ghost you can't bring yourself to hate. We were never trained to resist the seductive charms of happiness, so we accept it with open arms, knowing it brings us to a fatal end.