There are days, and the last twenty four hours has encompassed one, when it is possible to believe that one is feeling the pain of the entire world. I suppose that is when people look at you and say "he looks as though he's got the sufferings of the world on his shoulders."
I do not wish to carry the suffering of all humanity on my shoulders. They are broad. But not that broad.
It's just that sometimes the volume of incoming narrative about the suffering of others bears in on one's psyche in a peculiar way - a special vulnerability to seeing that even minor things carry with them their pain, according to the perspective of the sufferer. One man's bereavement is calculable alongside another's relationship breakdown, alongside doubts about self worth in another, alongside money worries, health worries, love worries, you name it. For each, they are real, and palpable. And their presence is pain, none the less real.
When, as today, one finds oneself porous, what is happening?
Is it what they call compassion?
Is it what they call depression?
It is all very well making objective calculations of real impact. I am not sure these measure pain in any way accurately.
It is all very well doing spiritual work on oneself. This may bring a perspective of gratitude, against which to set present pain. But it doesn't change the pain.
Even the devout, with a knowledge that roses grow best in shit, that pain is the best growing medium for transcendence, cannot but admit that the pain has to be real to breed such growth.
Puzzled. Porous. Pensive.
A frozen day, of unfrozen sensibilities.
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