As I lay here writing this sentence I am in pain.
Correction. I can feel pain. Correction.
It hurts and I want:
a shot of morphine
a big bowl of pasta with meat balls and cheese and a dry white wine
to wake up
to not have to do
to fling myself off a moving train
to be bathed in healing light
to scream bullsh*t! at a doctor
( X ) all of the above
What is pain? Is pain some psychotic demon throwing lit matches at our nerves?
No. Pain is a signal.
We say it hurts, what do we really mean?
Is it an ache today? Does it start small, pulsating, and then radiate outwards like a cat’s tail whip in slow motion? Cold wind and bee stings upon exposed flesh
Pain? Are you real?
Yes. I’m a matter of fact.
Pain? Why do you hate me?
I don’t. I am merely saying something is wrong. If you want to dress this up, here’s the number of a shady guy who does that sort of work:
Mr. Suffering, Esq.
Gray clouds, rain, and no.