For the entirety of my life the act of socializing in it of itself has felt torturous. It leaves me with empty feelings and melancholy. Even if I may laugh because a person I am with is funny, or feel pride when someone I am with praises me. Even if I may learn something valuable that I otherwise would not have gotten had I not sat down and spoke with this person. It always leaves me with a feeling comparable to standing with my exposed skin in a hailstorm. I feel cold. I feel irritating little bites hitting every inch of my body repeatedly. No matter how much I try to shield myself under trees or curl into a ball to decrease the surface area on my body. I feel hail raining down leaving cracks on my frozen skin.

For the entirety of my life I have been attempting to deny these feelings. That I just need to find the right people, or that I'm just having some kind of depressive episode or something. But no matter how my overall mood compiles during any season or stage in my life, I always think about how my body is constantly pursuing this experience that does nothing but hurt me.

Do I have reasons to feel pain? I think I do. Reason thinks so.

Reason tells me that hearts are in cages. They are enslaved, though they are still kind and clever. Ugly hearts however will take any and all means to free themselves. They can change how they look on the outside, but the illusion only works on the outside. It's right. Sometimes hearts are so ugly those that free them will push them back into their cages. Sometimes ugly hearts don't believe they belong outside so they go back inside. Sometimes ugly hearts remain out their cages but find nothing interesting so they go back inside. Sometimes ugly hearts consider what they find disgusting so they go back inside.

Reason also tells me that my words are sharp. It shines and glitters. It's made of steel. It says I like the way it looks. But it also tells me that I am weak. My stance is naive. My arms are thin. It's right. I can only point it in the air and let the light of the sun blind those who look at it. I know I cannot wield it in battle. I cannot even walk uphill in a knights armor, yet I continue to flash it anywhere I go when it's visibility is most obnoxious.

Reason also tells me I do not know who I am. It tells me that I am 263 lifetimes and counting. It tells me that is how my body is structured. It tells me that my conditions have ensured this. It's right. Nature does not know who I am. Nor does science know who I am. Not even politics knows who I am. How could I possibly know any of this?

Whenever reason tells, I ask what truth is. But much like God, truth doesn't like to make itself clear.