Most of the time, it doesn’t feel. Only under strain does its existence make itself known. When heavy, it’s considered.
Its purpose is the only indication of a moment to feel. If it doesn’t feel wrong, most of the time it doesn’t feel at all.
Glad to be chosen. In a sea of so many others, it feels selected as if by a narrow-gauge beam of light. Unless it’s the wrong one. Then, it may cry out at the description it’s forced to give. Some of them always feel wrong; as if forced to witness every atrocity committed in this vein as each one is given expression. Words can’t commit suicide, but there are some that would like to try.
Its feelings are numerous, and it has all the time in a decade to feel them. From cold to creaking to stifled to full. It witnesses all the life, and bears each part in turn. With each passing month it feels more.
How would I know?