If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound? Does pain still count if you don’t express it? If it exists only in the hidden places, in the fetid muddle at the bottom of your mind or the pinkening pressure of your eyelids, carved into nonessential bits of you that rub at the raw side of your clothes, does it exist at all? Does it matter? What matters is that hungry child on the other side of the globe. What matters is the mob, the milk, the rain cloud, the trigger. Survival in its crudest form. What right does a feeling have to exist at all and why can’t you beat the fucker null with comparative logic: you are here, safe, rich, sheltered; you are not there. What trick of the human soul makes you bleat when felled, like a sentient tree, to make a sound only you will hear in any case. Why do you lie there on the forest floor, wooden arms reaching heavenward as if you have a right to add anything but nourishment to the soil? You should be standing! Get your roots together and make a nest for the sparrows.
You have it good. Why do you need to be heard?