The Chains of Pain Essay

Why do we suffer? Humans have spent years searching for meaning in the grievous events that happen in life. Some find comfort through religions that give reason to tragedy and teach that suffering is not always eternal. Others just accept that this is the way the world is and then do their best to adapt to that reality. Religions and philosophies, like Buddhism and stoicism, may try to teach its followers how to end their pain, because no one likes hurting. However, suffering is not necessarily a bad thing. It is painful, but suffering can bring new levels of meaning and appreciation to happiness. Pain is inevitable for anyone who cares about the people or things in his/her life. But if we were to eliminate suffering then life would become meaningless, because real joy is not possible without the risk of pain, and those who find contentment after enduring some tribulations appreciate their joy much more.

The subject shuffled in, with his countless wrinkles, his hair peppered white and his threadbare clothes. However, despite his telltale destitute upbringing, unlike many other citizens, his eyes were still full of hope and life. Peculiar. Nevertheless, his value to the regime had diminished, as he could no longer contribute through work thus, he was a suitable candidate. As the drug was administered, the subject began to fade out of consciousness, his bright eyes slowly fading away. Breath in. Breath out. Silence. The whirring of the machinery seemed to dominate the silence, the white and sterile walls reflecting our distorted faces. Then the subject jerked to life.

Next he moved into the common room and lay a fire in the black stone fireplace, brushing the ash from the massive hearth along the northern wall. He pumped water, washed his hands, and brought up a piece of mutton from the basement. He cut fresh kindling, carried in firewood, punched down the rising bread and moved it close to the now warm stove.

The cold also affects Ethan’s feelings as it takes the warmth from the stove to melt “Ethan’s dark thoughts” that were induced during his time in his cold study (75).

to heat up some remedy he had picked up from a stage hand in passing through the

With each impingement, he angrily moaned at his assailants. And, there was even one point in the short film… one moment where you could see him clearly… for just a second or two, an image that burrowed its way into my mind. His harrowed face, the jaundice of his skin, and sunken eyes. He reminded me of my grandfather in the last few days of his life before pancreatic cancer had taken him. How he had become a shell of what he had once been, a blackening peel decomposing before our very eyes.

Arms sagging, Bill, a pharmacist, laid sprawled out on the sofa. After the long night of drinking, the clothes that once covered his body were thrown about the room. Before the sun began to rise over the hills, his eyes leisurely opened. Harassed by the humming of the furnace that sat opposite of him, he threw a half dranken bottle towards the machine, but it grievously missed. A morose look came across his face after the bottle shattered against the wall; however, his eyes began to shut once again.

When his parents had died he never thought he would be able to breathe again, and he almost didn't. The world became a cold place even in the warmest of months; not even moving in with his grandmother could restore him to his former glory. His hair no longer spun like gold, each thread fell hopelessly, weaving together into curls that framed his tanned face. Having emerald eyes framed by tangled golden lashes didn’t seem to brighten his look either. Instead, you could see his lost soul wandering within them.

He used to hobble over to his brother Sonny’s house, rocking back on his sofa back and hauling it along, resting often in the chair when he grew tired. He returned less and less often to his own house. At last he remained in Sonny’s house, sitting by the kitchen window or on a plot of weeds in warm weather or standing in the woodshed in winter. There, for many years, with his left hand, he would saw and split wood. At last he contracted an inflammation of the bowels and

He sees his wife sitting across the table, cold and brittle. Her skin is paper white with an unknown sickness that cannot be cured by even the finest doctor; she is dying a harder death with each passing day. Her frail form is pouring salt into the mental wounds of her husband. The pain, unbearable to endure, torments him; he must find a cure for the disease that is disseminating throughout his wife’s body.

Its a cold December night.Time of the year where the nights are cold enough to feel like the winds have hidden razors. This is tale of a father Gerald and his six year old daughter Harley in the modern three bedroom home so luxious home with the white glossed siding and black trim shining from the ice. Much colder living on the northern side of the state. We begin with dad preparing dinner and harley made her Christmas list for her trip to the mall tomorrow. With the spaghetti on the stove being finished Gerald opens his brand new Kenmore Oven. At that moment with a rush of heat you could almost taste the golden crisp loaf. "Harley dinner is done!" He shouts loud enough for her to hear. "Coming!" She replies with a quick answer. She could

The winter sky slept peacefully. It's cheeks glowed an eerie grey, engulfing the sunlight which enriched the malnourished city. The mother shivered as the crisp, cold air sunk its fangs into her leathery skin, wincing as it surged through her nostrils. The nurse's footsteps echoed in the halls; thuds which dimmed to a dying scurry, each as oblivious to her plight as the clock hands which slowly and monotonously degraded everything under its influence. He was her everything now.

My cough continued as we walk by more nitre and Montresor grew more worried for me. He said, “... We will go back; your health is precious,” but if I turned around then, he would have to get Luchesi to help and I could not let my friend fall into the hands of someone who knows so little. I knew the cough would go away, so I explained how it was nothing and how it would go away with some help of the Medoc. We drank more and more as we walked through the damp tunnels toward the Amontillado continued. We walked under the river and heard the water trickle down the bones that the walls has been lined with.

In the corner of the room, an old lady was slouched on a cracked, olive upholstered chair. A man gripped her veiny hand and softly patted her back. She appeared to suffer from a vigorous cough, which originated deep in her chest. Delicate curls framed her fragile face as hair was neatly swept to one side. A double string of ivory pearls swooped around her neck, landing in the lull of her collarbone. Vintage black eyeglasses were diligently balancing on the bridge of her crinkly nose. The wrinkles that adorned her face were indicative of many years lived and with each cough, they furrowed. She wore a knitted rose cardigan over what appeared to be a light blue night gown. It was evident that she had been rushed to the hospital as she was still wearing her fucia puffy slippers.

She was hoovering the stairs when the doorbell rang; she looked through the landing window, but couldn’t see the delivery van. Remembering Mrs Laurence’s warning, she crept down the stairs and peeped though the spyhole. She’d expected to see a teenager with a case of substandard tea towels and ironing board covers; instead, the man standing with his back to the house looked old or middle aged; his hair was grey and balding at the crown. He turned to ring the bell again, and Jen stepped back. There was something wrong with his face; the skin was pink and shiny, and stretched tightly over the bones. His features were nondescript, except for his lips, which were full, the corners curving upward, as if carved into the flesh with a knife. He slid something through the letterbox, and left.