The Enemy Within

Does the memory of your life before central pain fill you with warmth or with hopelessness. You should carefully consider the answer to this question before deciding whether you really want to hang on to memories.


You are your own worst enemy. If you have central pain, the cables of pain have twisted you into someone unlike who you were, whom your memory, although broken, can see standing through the haze of suffering, a ghost who can haunt you, which if you see too clearly, can kill you.

What makes our former identity so dangerous. It is that our happiness today and the happiness and dreams of that individual war with each other. When central pain first came calling, there was a struggle to hold onto things. Our sanity required that we hold onto our identity, or so we thought.

We panicked when we could no longer remember what the sensation of normal touch felt like. We wallowed in confusion and despair as we could not remember how to think, how I think. This battle which was lost before it began, was one of the phases of central pain. It took years to straighten out whether we had lost sensation or gained it. We could not feel normal touch, but our feet, our hands, everything distal had become alive with burning, and the muscles cramped and shot electric pains through their substance.

And so, we did not know whether this was really a loss, like the loss of our motor function or the uncovering of some malevolent kernel of defect in our bodies. Our selves became encysted somewhere deep inside, and we became engines of pain, beings of pain, wraiths of pain. We could only be satisfied if it could just be like it was, which actually makes about as much sense as the paralytic who can only move forward in life if running and jumping are restored.

Happiness is measured in relation to others, and to other circumstances. We cannot and could never count ourselves happy if we used our former selves as the standard, however troubled that life might have been. As much as we once struggled to hold onto identity, and rehearsed the sensation of touch in our minds with the feeling that if we forgot we might never regain it, those matters are best left behind.

Overremembering will be like a steel door to happiness if we do not put our former selves into forgetfulness. Memory is inaccurate anyway, and we will count all former sorrows as nothing, and imagine that only endless bliss was the state of the sensate being, not in physical pain.

Let us not speak of them, but look, and pass on.