h e a r t a c h e

I feel the need to explain; I feel slow yet chaotic, tired and low.

Empathy: the thing that, at times, makes me feel as if I can't breathe, can't function. It's the distracting pang of sadness for a stranger I've never met, the lingering worry for the fate of someone whose path I've briefly crossed. I imagine the places where I was while they were suffering and can barely think of anything else.

I say I'm sorry often, not because I feel guilty for the pain of others, but because I regret their unhappiness, their discomfort, their anguish. I'm sorry means I wish this wasn't happening to you.

At times  it's overwhelming, this way I feel. I see people shrug off the troubles of others and can't fathom how or why. While I'm exhausted from dwelling, they're brushing past.

I feel it now, that heaviness, and it's touching everything I do. 

I'm helpless, but I'd rather be like this than feel nothing. I'd rather care too much than not at all.