Holding on Like It's All I Have

Sadness. It weighs so heavy and yet you're not there. The edges are blurred; you have been erased. Perfect sadness is a delicate balance of blame, honing your suffering into a masterpiece. There is a certain amount of fault that is yours and a portion for others. Just enough of each so you can wallow both in self-loathing and self-pity. It is beautiful and deep. You can get lost. Except, you're trying to survive for some reason, passing as normal. Thus, you must cope instead. Coping hurts a little more, but it gives you dignity. You learn when the waves and stinging come to cup sadness neatly in the palm of your hand. That way you keep it close, but hidden. That way you can manage. Sometimes there are heart attacks. It feels like a knife is being twisted inside. Like nothing can breathe. I don't understand why, but it happens. Deal. When it happens, I stand perfectly still. In this state of inexplicable, unexplainable sorrow, joy sounds like the spinning, shrieking laughter in a nightmare from a movie. Mocking, dreadful. You pity happy people. They're distracting, fooling themselves. No one can keep it up forever. Everyone falls victim sometimes. We're all alone together. That's comforting, at least. That's all sadness is, a comfort. An easy way out. A choice.



But sometimes all you can do is drown.