Souffrir.

It pains to think that all the problems and trials and small and big joys that sums up a year can be summed up in one word - suffering. They can be, but they not necessarily are. Because perhaps everything that this world is is variable and primitive, and perhaps the greatest freedom that we have is that which allows us to make the definitions we want to believe are precise. The pain stings really at the thought only of possibility, that all that seemed right and best at the end of the day can possibly be just, well, pain. And the greater pain is in the reality that one year is not long enough to end what can be called suffering because no time is long enough. And even before the question when, or until when, is brought up the disappointment in knowing that today is not that time gets too distracting.

The greatest pain, perhaps, is not in possibilities or realities, but in facts. It is funny, though, that though the world can be a big set of variables, there are facts. And perhaps we make are own facts as well, because we make them out of the definitions that we create. And so the greatest pain is in the fact that there is at least One who has never been forgetful for a year, and will not be even if today or tomorrow or whenever is not the time that has been too elusive. One has been in control. And that one fact crumbles the poor arguments building up here. I cannot call anything suffering.

But who would not love to flee. But there is less pain now than fear in thinking of running away alone, because running away might be wrong, and it is scary to be wrong and alone. And it is hard to be wrong and go against what is evidently right. That, perhaps, would be suffering beyond definitions. It would be suffering still no matter what it is accepted to be. And would that make it truth? I guess I have been making wrong statements.