Maybe not everyone will like it but I wanted to write a while on sadness. I needed to.
Why? Because this is something we all live with, live within. It’s all around and underneath our fingernails, our tongues. Sadness is upon our shoulders, in the hand of our minds. I want to write from it, I want to become her lips and bones and match my heartbeat to hers.
I want to listen.
The only thing more crushing than sadness is sadness which is lonely.
I think they are probably going to leave. It will be a thing you said as your eyes slid clear past them to the corner of the room, or it will be a thing you didn’t say when they looked to you for the answer you did not yet know how to give.
It isn’t their fault, of course, it’s just how they were built. How most of us were built. The cravings for fast, easy, beautiful things to numb the pain. The way they never turn their heads these days, you know that wasn’t how they came. I once met a man who could turn his head clear all the way around like an owl; he could do it without getting twisted up at all it was nonsense and so frightening it was inspiring.
We were born one way but now we have become the raging discomfort of what they have impaled upon us. The way you speak, the way you think, the questions you do not have the guts to ask, how much of it is your own? What would you tell them if there were only five bodies in the streets? If there were five hundred thousand men, women and children of every race, color and creed. Would that change the depth of your message or just the size of the audience?
What builds us up tears us apart. What is walking toward us is walking toward walking away.
Here they come with their guns and their poetry. Here they come with their sunburns and cures for the common ignorance.
And here is you with your hands all on my early grave. Here is you with your tongue all down my throat. Here we stand face to face without one fucking single thing to say.
I’m not sure when I fell apart but I must have. Because everyone I meet is handing me shreds of things I do not ask for but they seem to think I need.
Every way I turn I’m kicking up pieces of whatever this is which has shattered itself to morph into me.
It has always been important to me to write from all angles of an experience.
Not about a feeling or emotion but from it.
You have to crawl inside the fragile ribs of that place and inhabit it, whether it be in the shadow or the light, and let it be what it is. Let it speak what needs to be spoken. And then carry its message into the words.
Some people told me my dark was too dark. Some people told me my light was too light.
So very few could understand that within one person grow the gardens of all shades and colors.
But learning to explore this truth about ourselves without judgment is how we heal, this is how we accept, this is how we deepen the love, strengthen it.
That is how writing teaches empathy and wisdom and grit.
And if you find someone who listens, who welcomes all of it, well, that’s just everything.