Pain is not what you feel when someone hurts you. It can't be inflicted by someone else on you. That happens when you accept that defeat.
Or maybe it is pain. But it's a different kind of pain, then.
But in my mind, real pain is when you really want something, or do something, and it is your own self that confines you. To me, that is the greater pain. I know what it is like. You feel like a tragic hero, a Greek opera plays, but none of it is funny in its silliness. Real pain is in real shame. Real shame is in admitting, to yourself over everyone else, that you cannot do this.
You can strain everything you have, and the muscles on your forearms and your back may be taut and pushing your body to its brink of life, but you still won't reach it. Fingers stretched, the nails just scraping the surface, just almost but never quite really. You can stretch to reach it and your strength pushes from inside. All the glory and the pressure of past achievements come in for a final shove. Pride rushes to inflict a horror of failure - every little thing that your mind can conjure to send you screaming battle-cries into the field of war.
The moments lead on and build up to a climax, where strength fails and the muscles cannot stretch anymore. Only will can push you on further, and that for a few more moments. If those moments magically work, it's determination you have. If they do not, as they do not usually, your arms sag and you let your head fall.
Sometimes a person can smile and cheer up about it. Let it go. Be happy with what he has and that's a good thing too. But there are times and there are goals that you cannot let go just like that. And then you feel worthless and that shame and that second type of pain.
It happens with me when I try poetry.
"Listen, real poetry doesn't say anything, it just ticks off the possibilities. Opens all doors. You can walk through any one that suits you…and that's why poetry appeals to me so much – because it's so eternal.
As long as there are people, they can remember words and combinations of words. Nothing else can survive a holocaust but poetry and songs. No one can remember an entire novel. No one can describe a film, a piece of sculpture, a painting, but so long as there are human beings, songs and poetry can continue." - Jim Morrison.