Damaged.

We are all damaged, moving around with bleeding scars. Every day, each day, we wake up, look up at the ceiling and remember how we got there. Still, we get up, dress up and face the world with a smile on our pale faces. If there could be an instrument to measure pain, this world would be such a better place to live in. Empathy is rare. We are all caught up in our own battle, oblivious to the fact that we are all in our own battle fields, fighting, dying a little each day. We are all wounded. Some more than others, some not healing at all. And we are all tired. Weary of waking up in the same bloody field as we fall a sleep in each night. We are all different but this pain makes us one. We are all beautiful stories written in the most delicate way. Meant to be read in this world. Joy at last to know there is no happiness in this world.