h a i m i s h

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I read somewhere, that one day you'll take a step and it'll hurt less than standing still. And I'm not very sure. . . how this works. Why must I dive into an ocean and cause ripples, when I can stand where I am, suppress my self, inhale it all in, stand still.

How can walking hurt less than standing? And then as I looked up at my beige colored ceiling, I found the answer. Not written, not seen, and maybe the answer wasn't on the ceiling at all, maybe it's all just a literary device, a psychological motion of thinking. Maybe I always knew the answer. Walking can hurt less, will hurt less, if you've never stood still at all. How can you register pain, if you've never known a balm? A salve? A relief? How can you know that it's hurting less. . . if you never stand, stop and look around-Look around at all the bloodshed, the smoking shadows of your anxiety, your fear, your pain.

Pain is not pain, if it's constant. You never know pain, untill you stop, extend your hands in the darkness, and try to feel for it.

So what I must do is keep going on, and on, and on. Blistered feet, and a blood red path, blood trailing out of my toes, and a scorching burn. But I must go on, and on, and on. It will hurt less. This is less. This is not pain. It's. . . less

And maybe the person who said that didn't mean it in the sense that I've extrapolated it. But then again. . . can you really help it? Art. . . lives endlessly because everyone who looks at it are so endlessly diverged.

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