Pain. How presumptuous of all to assume it is a hapless thing.


    It is the informer of our ruinous body, and of our crying soul.


    It is important, beyond measure, as it teaches us suffering, and what we suffered.


    For those who have it not, their suffering is unnoticed, and thus, all damage ignored.


    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.


    I feel it now, in my stomach, in my chest, in my core.


    Swirling, feeling, consuming me and my very existence, it is not there. It does not exist. It is a mere figment of my imagination, the brain telling me what is not right, and what is wrong.


    I fear it, I fear this nonexistent thing, that noticeably gives me great despair, yet is needed for my very survival.


    I wish I would not survive.


    As long as this pain, this non-object of great suffering, this messenger of all that I have endured, disappears, I will be happy.


    For death is my saving grace, my escape, the escape, from the pain.