As a young child, during moments of acute heartache or shame, I would wonder how such tremendous pain could ever possibly leave me.  In late adolescence, I became acquainted with the soul’s self-preserving anesthesia, and learned to draw strength by anticipating the wash of numb which inevitably cooled and detached me from all feeling, allowing what once felt inescapable, to ultimately sit safely distanced within abstracted memory.

Sitting here now, no longer a child, but never a man, I’ve grown loathsome of this knack for unfeeling, and I can only meditate on how I might trap this tingling, retching unease within my body as long as I can bear.