Pain is a fire that burns from the inside, burning structures of logic, trust, humanity and destroying the ability to feel love
You can rebuild the damaged parts of your persona, fill the gaps and rewire broken components of the ghost that has become of your humanity
But you never regain what you lose, that person you were who was like all the others as the people around you grow and develop, as your patchwork attempt at imitation requires constant repairs
But you never fit in, never become whole again as even the ability to feel fades into the ash of the all consuming fire that is the pain
What is a living thing that can’t feel, is it still alive or just an illusion projected to the world as into the shadows retreats all the surviving traits that outshone the blaze, because they were already built of hellish things
And all that huddles in the protective aura of those hellish things become corrupted and unlike the shining gems they were, and from the darkened form you see the world one question glares back from the jaded mirror’s twisted image
What is more real, the shadow or the form?