Why do we have such a finite capacity for pleasure but an infinite one for pain?

Every day I wake up afraid that I won't be able to write, that today is the day it has left me.

Optimism can be relearnt.

Failed relationships can be described as so much wasted make-up.

I'm trying..." How could I put it? "I'm trying to get far enough down the line so that I can remember." I stopped, then continued: "so that I can remember without the pain killing me" And the days were stacking up. And weeks. And months. It was now almost the middle of June and he'd died in February, but I still felt like I'd just woken from a horrible dream, that I was suspended in that stunned, paralyzed state between sleep and reality where I was grasping for, but couldn't get a handle on normality.

It's not like you take the right turning and you get everlasting happiness and you take the wrong one and your life's a disaster. In real life it's often impossible to tell which decision is the one you should make because what you stand to gain and what you stand to lose are sometimes-often-neck and neck.

I went grey at 12, my eyesight went at 17. I've been a crock from very early on.