People think we're special. We're miracles. That some entity created us special and cares about what we do.
This pain makes me think otherwise. Even if I had not examined the sources of the myths regarding this entity--and other, similar entities--I would call into question the notion that a being, allegedly perfect, had intelligently designed us with such flaws as creation of painful kidney stones.
Then there's children with cancer, parasites that devastate whole populations, birth defects and congenital conditions that debilitate, and neurological conditions that last a lifetime and affect quality of life adversely, or at least making intensive therapy necessary.
I don't blame the entity, because I don't believe it exists. I don't blame some man and woman who allegedly lived in a garden paradise and ate from some magical tree. I don't blame deities or the "sins" of man--I only recognize life as the struggle it is. Life is full of pain and work, and you'll experience plenty of both before you die.
But then there's happiness. There's love. There's silliness. There's beauty for all senses to experience. These are the important things in life, and these are the things that make bearable to live, that make it desirable to live. We persevere because even though life is pain, struggle, anxiety, and all sorts of negative things, it's also the things that make us smile, laugh, tear up with emotion, and feel needed, wanted, and important to at least one or a handful of other people.
I live for these things. I live for the love of the woman in my life, my child's laughter, my mom's unconditional love for me, her adopted son. I live for the friends who value my opinion and my company. I live for the people I barely know who compliment me on my relationship and my writing.
So I sit here in pain, smiling.