People ask me, from time to time,
what my hobbies are.
I tell them, almost casually:
reading and writing.
What I never tell them
is that I love suffering.
I love suffering through books
through darkness, death,
and the disastrous lives we live.
I love suffering through words
written on darkness, death,
and the disastrous lives we live.
Some of you may call me a masochist.
Perhaps.
But it is not I who craves the pain.
It is the undaunted monster within,
one that refuses to surrender its claim on my life.
I am only a wall,
waiting for strangers
to leave their colours and scars upon me.
I tried to silence it once.
With a sharpened blade,
I tried to seal it shut.
Still it bled
every time;
not once,
not twice,
but again and again.
And every attempt ended the same.
It looked at me
through its dark, dead, disastrous eyes
and said,
\"You will pay the price.\"
So I returned to my hobbies
reading and writing.