Chad Carter's Knowledge of Pain
This is my self-portrait of pain. I forgot to include the half-numb, half-painful place on my upper thigh, which I assume is some kind of nerve damage. I threw in prostate because I'm paranoid of the Most Embarrassing Deaths one can have, which I feel like anything to do with the a-hole is. I'm guessing most doctors figure it's your fault if you have a sore behind and urge incontinence. Going back to my assertion that no hero in movies or literature can be "real," I never see a scene where the hero is about ready to go in with his double .45s blazing, but has to stop for a quick sh*t first.
Both elbows are actually jacked up, above: one from doing forward elbow strikes which caused some kind of inflammation and fluid build-up, the other what I've been told is "golfer's elbow," where you get pain when you make a fist. The one wrist was injured while doing some strikes, because I love boxing and boxing exercise is good for you. Only you can do it wrong and hurt yourself, who knew.
The ankle and heel are from a couple of fractures. Now there's scarring all up in there which causes discomfort most all the time. I limp a bit from time to time, depending on what kind of stress I've had on the old hooves in a day's time.
And it makes me wonder, about the unpleasantness of the future, of getting really old, of needing a cane or walker, or a baggie with a tube in my side to catch my wastes, of chronic joint issues. How much do we fear death as we age, that we'll prefer a creeping sunken wreck of the human form to the sweet, sweet darkness, if we but let go?
I mean, once the world is Pain, how much enjoyment can there be? Just a minute here or there, near the broken glass of rustling night, the mewling whisper of the void?
