Believe me it’s no coincidence that the greatest minds in history possessed a fair share of mental pain, the kind of terminal pain that worked on nearing the tip of a gun so close to your head, that the mere pressure would now **** you regardless of how physically strong you pertain to be.

Pain is the screaming noise in your ear when you’re most silent,
pain is a dead rose in a red garden,
pain is a soldier that never returned from the battlefield,
pain is breathing, only to fill your lungs with sharp knives and poison.

But pain is also the fresh twist of ink on a yellow paper,
a metaphor on the side of an abandoned building,
the disfigured face on an empty canvas,
pain is the sculpture in your local museum,
the revolution erupting under your skin, in the darkest recesses of your emotionally dysfunctional brain.

Tell them you didn’t lose the power to be happy, you only lost the need for ever having it.

Sometimes, you still feel love, but only in tiny shots, enough to etch the outer layer of your skin.

Pain… is a reminder of all the rebellion, wars, and suffering it took to bring you here today,
it is a reminder that you must do something about it, create something, silence this deafening roar of guilt.

Pain designed this world, joy was just a late guest to an already blooming ceremony; how silly of her.