Sometimes literature gets soggy without the angst.
I guess you could say that after i’ve gone past my high school years, i’ve lost the fire to scream my pain madly at the world, perhaps because i realized that it doesn’t listen. I have to wonder sometimes at those who continue to live a profane existence of mulling their fears out loud, and ask myself, “Will they ever grow up?”. The other, scarier question would be, “What have i become, in growing up?”.
Sure, there is pain still. I am fortunate (?) enough to feel it, and to recognize it for what it is. What is missing is the urge to fight it and strike it down. I’ve grown, over the years, to be comfortable with it, and calmly accept the fact that i belong to it, just as the rest of humanity is owned by it until it dies. Even in death, there is pain.
There is Synchronicity to Pain. There is rhyme and reason. There is rationality.
