The universe is a pretty cold place. The average temperature in the universe is 2.735 Kelvin.
Dark were those days, but time, as they say, makes the heart grow fonder. One might even miss that utter misery. What greater proof of being alive than your body’s unconscious, unrelenting resistance towards death? You can’t just hold your breath and asphyxiate. Those wounds can’t help but heal.
It breaks my heart to know that others suffer, that everyone must overcome the same stupid obstacles. It’s a miracle that there’s any progress at all.
I am not sure that smoothing out those lowest depths was worth the price of losing the ability to be happy. Dampen the highs with the lows. Regression towards the unfeeling mean. The problem is that the default state is not some mild contentedness, but more of a nagging doubt. Maybe I no longer get famished, but neither do I feel satiated. Anhedonia sometimes sounds blissful.