"What doesn't kill you, makes you stronger"
-Friedrich Nietzsche
A stab with a knife is more tolerable than a loved one's intentional (or unintentional) hurting. The pain it causes exceeds the boundary of emotions; the physical gets terminally ruined.
After my mom's parting, after my rethinking of what to do with this effing life, after undergoing a depressive state, I wasn't ready to find out that another revelation would blast me to bleed-profusely.
I would have ended it instantaneously; but I was so masochistic to do so. I savored its venom, even dried the fang.
And in the process of sticking with it, I started to get a grasp of reality:
That second chances are imaginary attempts to recover what was not originally there.
That if one could hurt himself, other people can even surpass in greater height that self-inflicted pain.
That holding on to some one, whatever the connection may be, is like waiting for a rain in the midst of drought. It's empty. It's vain; and,
That I take pleasure in being hurt, even bliss in hurting myself more.
And if this is my last chance of coping, why not take the risk?
Hurt me more...
