Loud and Ringing

prelude

I can feel that numbing chill of sadness cover my ligaments in a deathly freeze. My mother said that I didn’t know sadness, that you just can’t know something that intangible is lurking. She said sadness was a tidal wave of sudden solemnity. Of course, she didn’t say it that poetically. If we’re going for the record, she told me verbatim, “You don’t know what sadness is. It’s a real fucking bitch though, darling.”

I don’t believe her. Sadness is the most tangible emotion there is. There’s a brutal, sadistic lens that comes with it. Words take on double meanings and everything someone says just adds weight atop of your caving-in chest. Nothing is satisfying. Nothing fills that nothingness, the void. Something of a great abyss tears inside of you, slowly, oh so slowly stretching. Limbs start to become heavy. The bed starts to become a safe haven away from those you unintentionally drown out… You care, just not enough, and eventually, not at all.

Sadness is a creeping vine. At the beginning, you tell yourself it’ll never be a problem. That it’s just a harmless, almost serene looking, plant that’ll run its course like everything does. Before long, it cloaks you. Even after you hack away at the vegetation, it’s still a part of you, and you hope to god and fear to that same god that it never happens again. Never. You fear being sad. You fear the weakness and the pain by being so easily reduced to uselessness. You fear being happy for the fear of one day not being happy any longer.

I needn’t tell you this. I have a thing for poetic nothings and elaboration. It makes this infinite mass of gray something less monotone. Maybe if my thoughts are colorful, maybe if I put forth an effort, I’ll be able to emerge from this stronghold. That’s all they ever said right? That we’ve got to put forth effort-- that we’re our best advocate. And as I think of it,

I’ve never had a person treat me as bad as I treat myself.

I roll into the inviting cotton of my pillowcase, discontented with the tick tock drone of the clock with the hand well past three. The clock and I play cat and mouse each morning, with me consistently scurrying away from the factual evidence of my superior laziness. It's gotten very bad recently. Willpower comes about me from some unknown savior and I rise.

And as this day begins, I feel that last breath drawing out of my chest. Less, I force myself to go forward.
♠ ♠ ♠
nothing terribly interesting. I have grown a fondness for the sea. Especially rocky seas and pale, cold skies.