You know - there is a lot of pain out there in this world. I think we all are too isolated from it, from what others suffer. Partly our own doings. Something inside us humans that keeps our suffering close to our chests, as a secret, as something we protect and even become addicted to.
I wish I had a superpower and could see the spotlight, the lighthouse beam of pain coming out of all our guts.
I have walked in many different circles. The one thing, from the homeless up to the high class, the one thing in common is trying to alleviate our suffering. We all do it. Sometimes we don’t even know we are suffering but we all are. And we all have our way to deal with this suffering, to handle it, to deal with it.
Part of the dynamic of this is a cycle of pain and release. Our drugs, our sedatives become our pillow, our blankets. They are our friends. We fall in love with what does us harm. We do.
And I don’t have an answer or solution to that.
I don’t want to live in a world without sedatives - I don’t even think that possible. My only half-solution is that we share our pain more, share a drink more … the Buddha’s middle ground.
Needle And Thread
I remember being a kid
and there was this girl
Vera.
She lived across the street
Jamestown Crescent
city housing
where kids grow up on
bologna sandwiches
noise and anger
and little hope.
Vera never said much
and was a few years old than me.
When I’d visit she would
sit there on the lawn chair outside
and slowly put a needle and thread
through her forearm.
I never understood what she was doing.
But I couldn’t help myself
visiting
and watching her
stitch up her arm
not a flinch, not a sound
not a word.
I often wonder what happened to Vera?
Did she grow up and
throw away her needle and thread
or does she still keep it in a drawer
hidden away from her kids and husband
there for moments of relief
from a world that doesn’t bother
to try and understand?
I often think of my own words
as a needle and thread,
a way to operate on myself
but still be sure to remain alive
so I can experience it
again, another day.
It’s these many minor suicides
that make us
that keep us
who we are.
We all have our methods
of staying awake and alive.
What is your needle and thread?