I’m not happy. I’m just not totally completely, wildly happy.
And there’s this bad habit of picking on scabs, self-inflicted or otherwise. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s always self-inflicted.
I finally have an answer to…
Jinn zakhmon ko waqt bhar chala hai
Tum kyon unhe chede jaa rahe ho?
and it is…because it feels good to feel something, that’s all.
Pain, like wine, must be consumed in moderation and deliberation. Isn’t that why you nurse a drink and you nurse your wounds as well? *Hic*