It was sad when she had told me that because of me should would never love again. Sadder still when I realized after so many years of solitude and recrimination that I believed her! Suffering is considered heroic when it is in print of course. The actual portion that little boys love is the acclaim they may one day achieve for their endurance in same. Little girls ever conscious of a pinprick. For myself I tend to surround myself with the exotic forms of paper in print topics of drama that recounts real life experience. How can that stack up to the communal fantasies that all are expected to live by? To relish being judged by your attentiveness to the current fashion that you venture out of the door dressed within? To be admired for the intricate knowledge of the toys that you ride about town or go on vacation with? For some, the ability and opportunity to fashion such things from scratch? How so? How can one say I am without getting crowded out of their own proposition by so many that if you had anything extraordinary that was worthwhile to the present conversation in the popular realm would crowd you out? Real suffering is a solitary exercise devoid of any possibility of obtaining outside help or sympathy. Even for the toymaker’s, also known as your parents, you are stretched too far and at a fair distance from the solution. If you wade too deep in quicksand you will sink into its mire and cease to be a problem for the rest of the waking world. Then and only then, you get the benefit of total experience.