confessions of a "maybe sadist"

i hovered near the door of my heart.

hesitating, i wonder if to nudge it open would be the best choice. perhaps some things are best left alone. call it denial but sometimes, denial's the only option life presents. "why take life so seriously?" pain will, after all, come, whether we seek it or not. the birth of a new born baby. the passing of a loved one or maybe even a stranger, considering how the world now is one. the loss of the bliss that was once ignorance. the neglect of a once-loved passion.

pain it seems is not something we can put away in the broom closet and close the door on.

why? why do we often open up the pandora box? like a wound that has not yet fully healed. we know that picking at it would result only in scars, yet pick at it we will, and often, over and again. till at some point, it is but a nasty habit. more than even a conscious act, it is a gesture at normality.

perhaps in some ways we are all sadistic. perhaps in some ways we revel in dwelling on self-pity. self-pity, the truly loathsome word. going over the pain again and again. we seem to somehow rejoice in feeling that odd stab in the heart.

that odd stab in the heart.

does it make us more human to feel pain? or does it make us less human to want to feel the pain?