04 January 2012

There is a Sadness

There is a sadness that lives on the riverbank. Calmly she sits and stares at her face in the passing flow of the river of life, sometimes losing herself in the depths of the reflection of her own eyes, hair a glorious gold, framing a face of such beauty that the heavens weep for not possessing it. In the passing current she sees the many manifestations of herself and smiles: sadly, wanly, the whiteness of her skin tinged slightly by the rush of blood, the ice in her eyes melting a bit but only for a moment. A diamond tear flows down her ivory cheek and joins the flow of the river, joining the flow of countless sorrows. 

There is the sadness of the children; born into suffering, their destinies as immutable as the stars in the heavens, they shall die before they see their tenth summer. Some born into riches beyond imagining but their loneliness a vast desert they are lost in. There are some whose parents brand them every night with broomsticks, irons and kettles; anything that comes to hand but the real pain is in their hearts, torn to shreds even before they skin is turned into a bloody mess. 

There is the sadness of love. The sadness that is wrapped in red satin, perfumed in Paris and carries a thorn that inflicts a pain greater than all the spears in Alexander’s armies. There is the pain of the rejected lover, his eyes dark pits in his face, the gleam of hope extinguished from them with that final rejection. There are the used, lying in their beds, dripping from the exertion of lovemaking, still high from the adrenalin of fucking, still clinging to that other but as alone as if they were on an island in the middle of the seventh sea. Petals dripping to the ground, tears rolling down cheeks, throats aching from the exertion of crying, a sadness that touches a primal need as basic as that which commands the breath from our nostrils.

Andrew Mason (Creative Commons Licence via Wikimedia)
"There is the sadness of the lost...their wives woman they do not remember marrying"

There is the sadness of joy. Brief moments of ecstasy, sojourns on that ninth cloud of lore but knowing that the fall comes soon enough. The higher the summit, the deeper the valley. Joys temporarily brought by the nectar of the grapes, intoxicating joy that puts sorrow to flight, only to have her return in the morning with her extended family. A game that is danced in complicated circles, joys short-lived and dying every time, sadness outlives them all and dances on their graves. 

There is the sadness of the lost. Their lives in a corner they do not remember  turning into, their wives women they do not remember marrying. Deals gone wrong, faith abandoned on an empty pulpit, a flapping rag in a breeze that threatens to blow away every last one of their convictions. Memories of days when their plans were bright beacons I the distance; calling them to future successes, glory without comparison; they would be the pride of their families, the ones who would put their names on the lips of the entire village. Instead here they are, sitting beneath the shadow of decisions that at the time seemed as insignificant as the anger of a butterfly but in hindsight was the door to doom.

There is a sadness of the rejected. The ones whose every advance is put aside like the leftover remnants of a bad meal. Whose love is branded an affront to the sensibilities of those who have appointed themselves guardians of the world’s morals. Closeted and left behind they live life under a blanket of lies that grows heavier with each passing day. Surely the weight of the grave is a relief compared to the burden forced on them by the fall of the divine dice? A whirlwind of pain, hearts torn to bits, spirits weary things that look upon the act of living as a dungeon with no key to freedom. 

There is the sadness of the old. Bodies that refuse to move to the command of instruction, hands that seem to go off in directions unwanted, eyes blurred by the vision of countless memories. But as clear as crystal are the days gone by, the opportunities lost, the wishes unfulfilled, the nostalgia for a land that was never visited, the friend that died before they could reconnect, the job you wanted to do with all your heart but today is nothing more than a hobby. The coming of every days’ sunset, a reminder of opportunities that passed like thieves in the night, felt, barely seen and robbing your each day of hope. The grave awaits packed to the brim with unfulfilled dreams. 

Her eyes glimmer, she can never be satisfied. Each day she will drag another innocent into her embrace. Kiss them slightly on the lips sending a chill through their bodies, the light in their eyes disappearing like a flame surprised by a playful breeze. It is a feeling that they do well to learn for it shall be their companion till the end of their days. She shall smile into their faces until the end of time, and they shall learn to know her name and whisper it softly in the sweet forgetfulness of their dreams.            

Silhoutte of Sadness by JiNKY Lim (Creative Commons Licence via Wikimedia)
"They shall learn to know her name and whisper it softly in the sweet forgetfulness of their dreams."              

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