pain is not pretty, it’s nothing— but a mere pain.
i always do wonder every time i see poets who write pains into something that a person like me can admire and will make me dig deeper into it until i feel myself swirling around its hole. they will describe it just like as if it was never been a reason for them to hear their heartbeats as a stranger, like it was never been a reason for their cold hands and blank eyes. oh, i always do wonder how they turned pains into a screaming voice breaking to a whisper.
i always do wonder when musicians tell pains into something that soothe to my senses, like it was a voicemail from my favourite person that i will choose to hear every time—in repeat, they will sing every syllables of it like as if it was never been coming from a ghost of their past lovers, like it was never been from a heart cracked because their home has decided to finally go. oh, i always do wonder how they feel the pains and told me that it hurts like heaven.
i always do wonder how the painters welcome every heartbreaks that they didn’t and never been invited to their doorsteps, they will move their hands and they will do it in a rapid rewind—rewind and rewind, like as if it was never been the thoughts of every bleeding, like it was never been become their hands that clasped into a long time for its afraid to let go people one more time. oh, i always do wonder how they touch pains and it turned into harbor lights, making it picturesque.
i can’t help but to wonder. pain is something that i wouldn’t want myself to romanticize at, like it was a daily dose of voicemails that i will be responding with “i will not answer, not today”, i am certain not to see it into something good and a gift from all saints, because i am afraid that it might cut me open and reveal every scars that maybe i have ever since. pains are just pains no matter how you hide it into pretty metaphors, and every line of a song lyrics, or even into different type of colour pallets. pain—as it is, will always be the reason why i wouldn’t want to hang every ghosts i have in my closet every lonely nights. it will always give me a feeling of walking through my bruised knees and i would never ever compare the feeling to heaven nor to hell. pains will always make me touch all the memories left in my lips and let it unraveled ‘till it hurts. pains are just pure heartaches in every cold nights. swollen eyes and heavy heart. it’s just a mere brokenness that keeps everyone bleeding.
poets, musicians, and painters are wrong. perhaps, they lied. just so i thought. because you give me pains and i love it, even found it beautiful after.
so i keep on wondering, i wonder, and i wonder.
— 01:00 l. sin, pain is not pretty
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