I fear the unknown.
I fear losing myself in the vastness of the world—what does it really mean to be me? Am I simply another copy printed out of a machine, and told to live within the boundaries of society, not daring to venture into the outlands, in fear of perhaps having to face even greater sorrow; even greater despair; even greater pain. Pain. Perhaps I do not even know the meaning of such an ineffable word. Perhaps the title of pain is simply given to the aspects of reality that seem to strip us of our humanity:
The death of a loved one leaves us hesitant in ever loving again; in fear of suffering through yet another great loss. In fear of, one day, our own heart refusing to beat if it would never again feel the love of the one soul that Death decided to take. If it would never again feel the warmth of another.
The inability to help someone in great need leaves us feeling empathetic and hollow.
The sight of a child being stripped of their innocence as a result of the cruelty of the world we live in; of the people we live with, stains our hearts. Yet pain is more so prominent in accepting the notion that life will spare no one; the purest heart will have to withstand what humanity has made of the world; how humane we are to each other. Every child will become well acquainted with loss, love, cruelty, fear, darkness, and so forth. Every child will feel these forces tossing and turning within themselves like an endless storm. They will be forced to juggle perhaps two or three of these emotions, and face the consequences of allowing even a single one to fall.
Yes, this is what I define as pain.
I do not blame anyone for the pain I have faced in my life, yet I do feel anger toward the people that could have caught the balls that had escaped my grip, but refused to make the effort. As though my problems, emotions, feelings, were insignificant. As though helping another child cope with adversity were a sin. I feel anger toward the people who never offered me shelter amidst the storm. Or should I say, storms. I feel anger toward the people who witnessed what was happening and decided that I would be perfectly fine after the storm passed. But what if I told you that it never did? What if I told you that every day that passed drained the tears that were brought by the storm of another; that life was full of storms hurdling themselves one after the other as you tried to survive what seemed like a hurricane?
Then again, who am I to feel anger toward these people, if I have done the same? If I have sat by the fire in a warm shelter, drinking hot chocolate, and occasionally peering out the window to see yet another child desperately fighting against the wind, the rain, the hail, the snow—whatever it may be—and somehow having the audacity to sit back and watch.
Yes, I fear the unknown, not only within the world but within myself. For I continue to wonder: why would I stand and watch? I continue to search the crevices of my own mind, prepared with a shotgun, in hopes of driving a bullet through the Whisperer himself. Through the man that seems to think he has the right to manipulate my conscience through his persuasiveness. I remember his whispers from time to time: “you’ve already suffered through that storm, do you really want to do it again? For the sake of a child that may not even survive?”
Perhaps I am just another copy from the copy machine, for all I have ever done is what others have done before me: stood and watched…and watched…and watched…