“Maybe you’re right. I don’t know what pain is. I guess sitting by the phone for hours waiting for someone to call, but knowing they won’t isn’t pain. Crying myself to sleep every night isn’t pain, because every word They say cuts deeper than a knife cutting my flesh: I guess having my heart ripped out and thrown around every day by someone I love isn’t pain. Waking up every morning alone and succumbing to sleep every night alone isn’t pain. I guess being consumed by the anger and frustration I have festering in my heart isn’t pain. Not being able to look at my reflection in a mirror without turning away in disgust and dissatisfaction because I know I’m not happy, because I know my life is an intricate, deceptive stage cloaked with careful lies isn’t pain. I guess feeling indifferent to the wonders of life, to the spectacular vitality and invincibility so easily found in the new generation isn’t pain. Feeling numb and not disappointed anymore when, for the millionth time, I am rejected from society isn’t pain. I guess choosing to escape the real world around me through the fictitious but marvelous realm of literature—being forced to substitute selfish friends with that of book characters isn’t pain. I guess becoming a slave to my own morbid, purely hopeless thoughts, and becoming imprisoned in my own self-destructing Hell isn’t pain. Being aware of an invisible, decaying clock buried in my body, and acutely conscious of the absolute alienation I have been vacuumed perpetually into isn’t pain…I guess you are right."
— Amanda Rosso and Kayla Gough
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