There was a story I once heard that made me cry. For the life of me, I can’t remember what the story was but I remember the raw emotions I felt listening to it. I remember connecting with the source that created the well from which the entire sadness in the whole world was being taken. It was like, for a moment, I swam in sadness itself.
And sadness, let me tell you, is not just the feeling. It is a place. It is a being.
It breathes, lives, vibrates. And spreads. It is a well, deeper than you can dive. And when you get a glimpse into the darkness, the nothingness of sadness, the hollow, lonely feeling of being and existing in a space confined by breadth but with endless depth, you begin to identify with it.
Because sadness, see, is a reaction to a lack of that spice life takes everywhere it goes. Sadness is what is left in the wake of energy, life and springs of love. It is the broken penholder swept off the table in the passion of love. It is the shattered pot of plant knocked over by giggling lovers sneaking into their home at midnight.
Sadness is the bitter taste yet untasted when the love letters and awwns were sent. It is coats of arms laid down in peace because of promises of everlasting peace. Sadness is the good morning kisses you would learn to not wake up to anymore. The planned trips that would never be made. It is the depth of what-ifs.
Sadness is the aftermath of life before death. And experiencing death after sadness would be a relief because death is an escape.
Sadness without death just breeds. It grows and growls. It is a repetitive reminder that you cannot escape into death yet nor can you un-experience the nothingness that is now slowly swallowing your being.
That, my friend, is sadness. It is a happy place without the happiness.
