Scars

I realized recently that there is a limit to my empathy.  I have endured the death of my father, my brother, uncles, aunts, grandparents, step-father, etc.  I don’t say this to garner sympathy.  I am by no means unique in this regard.  But the truth is that I have built up some mighty breastworks within my heart that even I can not breach. 

In the real world, what this means is that there is a limit beyond which I can no longer empathize with my fellow man.  I can’t.  I reach the point of dark humor - or gallows humor - that is the limit that my heart can bear.  I would love to reach further and cry with those around me who have lost, but I fear that I could not do so without completely crushing myself in the process.  There is an art to the self-preservation of the soul in which I engage - even without knowing it. 

I know no other existence.