The measure of suffering is how distant you are from your own happiness.
There is no distance farther than that.
It’s a gap people carry around with them, sometimes oddly, with pride:
‘Look how long-suffering, look how hard working,
Look how good doing I am.’
Small wonder we’re exhausted all of the time.
Because there’s the whole of our lives to account for, to ourselves,
To the you who is listening to this.
Sure, it’s your hole and you’ll sink into it if you want to
But to me it’s just another drain pipe, a wound for life to drip out of
Everyone can see right through you
Until you find a way to plug that hole yourself.
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