Raise your hand if you want me to hurt you.
Who in this room wants to get hurt?
The short answer is no one. No one wants to get hurt. Getting hurt is tantamount to willfully jamming your hand in a door and allowing it to slam down on your knuckles. Except instead of your knuckles it’s, you know, your heart and your dignity and anything that made you feel warm inside. Crunch: then it’s all broken in a door jam.
The long answer, believe me, is everyone. We all want to get hurt. Or should want to, a little bit. Being hurt is tantamount to wildly passionate and soul-wrenching sex. It is the complete loss of control for the sake of something organic and beautiful. It is the slow burn of something necessary and thrilling about the human condition. The pain is terrifying, your heart on the line; tied up in strings and pulled apart with pins from an ancient fated sewing kit. It makes you sweaty sick with panic. And, worst of all, the ache is debilitating. But we want it — we should. I deeply believe we should crave it. You and I. We should rock together, low-slung in the pillows and covered in yarns and needles, pin-prick pains of fear, and the bittersweet fire of longing.
