She asked me why I was doing this… and I couldn’t even answer. If ever I’ve suffered, it’s been my own doing. I’ve held my hand to the flame and just let it burn. We used to play Mercy. We hurt each other until we cried out in pain. That was always the game: to see who could endure more. Did it make us any stronger?
Mercy. Mercy. Merci. Until I went numb.
The first time she asked I was already battle scarred. She asks me again now and still I can offer only my silence. Where was my voice when I needed it most? Whatever words I utter in the aftermath are useless. Screaming only betrayed weakness.
I let it happen.
Worse than that, I sought it out.
Why?
I still can’t say.
VIEW 3 of 3 COMMENTS
jozsef:
Our experience of ourselves and the world owes more to our beliefs than to what is actually real, even though our perception is that our beliefs are based on what we observe. That was the process in early childhood when our critical faculties were very undeveloped and here we are as adults acting on the basis of a child's construction of what's real. If anyone was ever justified in allotting no time to testing or contemplating their own strength, it would be you. Feeling weak is not being weak; we all have limitations and the intellect to comprehend how small any human being is in the context of the universe.
catdad:
Love the way you express yourself. I hope you are keeping this stuff for future use.