It’s always there—
I am always there—
Above and looming.
Never quite realized, but definitely there.
I indulge and suffer alone,
But never fully feel;
The suffering is there,
But is it really?
And is it true?
Always ready to indulge but question,
Both at the same time.
To understand it, to feel it
And know nothing about it.
Others’ suffering seems so palpable
And obvious—so out there—
But mine is forever in hiding.
Intangible.
It just looms.
This story is part of a collection of poems, short stories and introspective diary entries, called “Grimoire of a Weird Person II”.