It feels good to squeeze the part of you that hurts.
You have this wound. And you can treat it. You are treating it. Ointments. Pills. Netflix. But that slow healing doesn’t provide you with the stimuli you need to feel like something is happening. You wait. The skin turns from purple to yellow. You can see that something beneath the skin is changing… but not fast enough.
And so you squeeze. And it hurts. And that pain lets you know that under the skin something is there. You have nerve endings. You feel things. Blood rushes to that place. You put your body in peril and it responds. Peril brings about a feeling of relief. I am more than the sum of my bandages. I am alive.
You squeeze again and that sharp burn makes you forget the persistent dull throb that reminds you you’re broken.
Broken things can be mended. Don’t make me bind your hands to the stretcher. Stop squeezing. Stop poking. If you knew what was good for you…
The truth is you will prod, you will peak under the bandage, it can’t come quickly enough.
What should you do? Break another bone? Tear another piece of skin? How many fires can you start before you realize that you’ve got to start putting them out?