Thank you for my suffering.
I didn’t believe in anything. But my suffering made me a believer. It made me a thinker. It forced me to learn about who I am when I have nothing, when I am NOTHING.
For a long time people couldn’t reach me, I wanted someone to come find me and pull me out. But they couldn’t reach deeper inside than I could, and I couldn’t. Life would be so easy if I could stop making this sacrifice.
I sacrifice job, relationships, money, and freedom, to return to my sentence. To cook myself in a room, and walk my circles of hell.
And what do I gain from my visits? My soul is renewed— Every. Single. Time.
It’s bad, it’s just as bad as they said it would be. It burns. I like pain, and still its nearly unbearable. But each time you endure it, you become something more than before.
And you become hotter than the flame they torched you with. And that heat becomes the pulse you measure your life by. I don’t know if it’ll ever end, but don’t assume the person they punish is the same person who wears the scars.
It never is.
You’re nothing without your storms. You’re nothing without enduring your suffering. That’s why you have it. That’s why it’s for you.
Will you accept the gift that is your suffering?
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