When you're so used to it, it's all you know.
You crave it. You can't live without it.
It's all you want. It's all you need.
Life seemingly has no purpose without it.
You hurt, you bleed, you scream, just to feel alive.
What's the point of living, then, if you can't feel alive? When it isn't pervading nearly every aspect of your existence?
It marks phases in your life. Periods when it was all you felt. When it was all your lived for. When it was all that kept you going.
Sometimes it burns like a dull, persistent ache in the background, other times like the hottest fires of hell.
But you like it.
You like the pain.
The hurt. The scars. The flashbacks. The raw emotions. The full weight of the invisible, silent turmoil as it comes crashing down on your consciousness.
You take it all in, soaking it up like there's no tomorrow.
Happiness feels like something's missing. "This is the real deal," you tell yourself.
"It hurts. So bad. But I like it."
It's comfort. In pain.
And you wouldn't have it any other way.