When some men die it is as if you had lost your pen-knife, and were subject to perpetual inconvenience until you could get another. Other men’s going is like the vanishing of a great mountain from the landscape, and the outlook of life is changed forever.
There is pain that cuts through you so viciously, without mercy, that it leaves you in a state of perpetual bliss. Something vanishing, in which you [lie] upon the graciousness of your own misfortunes, and what is yours is shaken into dire states of desolation..
This is not that pain..
This pain is delicate. So delicate, in fact, that were it to be caressed with but the single breath of wing.. it would shatter. This pain is held in the silence of a calmness. This pain is isolated so well, that it dare not even quiver for the sake of forsaking nothing and everything in the depths of absolution. It is something to be tethered, cradled, coddled, and traced in the gentlest of heartbeats that sound off in unison beneath a courageously lacking shell. A facade built so well, and so quickly, that the tremors of folly beneath it wait in stillness for that all too familiar collapse to set the world in flames.
Which will break me first?