Sadness

Would that I were a dry well, and that the people tossed stones into me, for that would be easier than to be a spring of flowing water that the thirsty pass by, and from which they avoid drinking. – Kahlil Gibran (January 6, 1883 – April 10, 1931)

A deep sadness has taken my heart ransom. There is no price to pay for its release, for the kidnapper has no demands, other than to inflict pain. There are days when it seems that I will certainly drown in this immeasurable well of agony. How has this beautiful sad sweet life come to this? I keep asking myself rhetorically, hungrily awaiting an answer. My mind continually reasons around in perfect circles, as minds often do, only producing more questions, and no answers. No approach seems to have much success and I abandon all hope of understanding. Answers are as evasive as peace and closure.

I want to run naked shouting at the top of my lungs crying laughing sobbing … immersed in pain … enveloped by sad heartbroken emptiness … where I fall I wish to remain … for the dust to cover me, hide me, comfort me. Instead I willingly consume this poison in small benign meticulous dosages; its thoughts … memories … sorrow … happiness ... pain. I’m looking at this strangely familiar face in the mirror, it still looks pleasant although its eyes reveals perseverance turned weak; its mouth is silent while my heart is screaming.

It’s over and impossible to save. My soul is hollow. I am surrounded by silent passersby, a silent nightmare where nobody speaks. I’m offering sand deliveries in the middle of the Sahara, trapped on this lonely island where hopes and dreams turn into ashes, and illusions are dashed into broken mirrors.