We all have our quirks, our eccentricities that we often fear would be the cause of our isolation from everyone else. Some are blatant and out on full frontal display while others we try to keep silent and hidden just underneath our skin.
I envy sociopaths and psychopaths sometimes. I wish I didn’t think too much. I wish I didn’t care. I wish I couldn’t feel.
But then – that would also mean I can’t feel happiness, ecstasy and bliss.
So I guess the question here is: Is the pain, sorrow and hurt worth the joy and bliss? Even if that bliss is fleeting and the anguish is longer? Does the memory of the good outweigh the bad? Is it worth all that, just to have some sliver of hope?
But isn’t hope just undiscovered disappointment? Is hope a lie?