“Sadness:
The World As Seen Through Eyes Of Broken Glass”
04/20/14
To
my dear, and dearest friends, and—as always—kind and loyal readers.
Sad.
Sadness. Lately, I have been so
very, very sad.
I touch the sadness, and it is like passing through
veil after veil of shadowed remorse.
I taste the sadness, and it is a bitter drink composed
of wormwood and decay. Or else—conversely—the
saltiness of tears upon the tongue.
Various basements and attics are full of musty
sadness. Of trunks and boxes of
discarded clothes. Of long-neglected
photographic albums of vacations, and happy times; of friends whose names
cannot be recalled. Of toys broken and
forgotten. And—perhaps—in a small box folded most carefully, the layette of a
long-ago child who failed to thrive.
Sadness is like sitting quietly before a window, looking
out through a blurred and rain-specked scene to an abstraction of blurred and
blowing trees outside the frame to a gray and liquid day; and yes—in sadness—the
heart feels exactly the same way: bleak, somehow foggy, distant, ill-remembered
and yet familiar.
Sadness is so ready full-encouraged by the sounds of
an all-day rain upon the roof.
Sadness is not as all-consuming as is a dark
depression, depended upon every movement, every pulse beat.
I know so well that, ‘other’, a seemingly endless
depth of despair which rises in the mind and the body to paralyze the arms and
legs, obliterating all thought as it devours the very soul.
There is—in depression—a sickness of the mind that
bends all senses to itself, making even the slightest movement or thought
difficult.
Suborning the appetite, food becomes as ashes in the
mouth.
The very body seems to collapse, seeking to become
as small as is possible; ti lie with legs and arms and body drawn up to hide in
the center of the bed…motionless…with stifling bed clothes pulled up past the
ears.
While deep depression seeks to destroy the very
soul, sadness—being less severe, somehow—is like a gentle, and semi-sweet ache
that plays-about the heart.
Sadness can be harsh, too, as in recalling that word
or phrase said in haste or in anger that can never be taken back.
Sadness can be soft, almost gentle, as in—perhaps—the
memory of one’s first, and innocent love.
My sadness with its own, pained sense of remorse and
regret plays around the edges of a deep depression, lest it fall in.
The sadness is—for now—enough to bear, More than enough, really, but the heart in
its sweet despairing manages to avoid the far-greater agony of depression’s despair;
which I realize makes absolutely no sense, but in my longing, I find it to be
true.
In the measured quiet of my cluttered and neglected
house, my sadness is a silence which still somehow presses upon the ears.
Memories from some long-ago time ripple to the
surface, and to the Present.
In my too-quiet house I hear the faint echoes of
children happy, laughing. Sometimes, I
think I hear a door pulled closed, or the occasional drawer pulled shut.
A polite knock upon the door. The sounds of a thousand black birds as they
gathered in the back yard to eat the pieces of bread thrown to them by my
mother and father.
And yes—into that void of quiet suffering, as I day
dream, or try to drift off to sleep—I often hear my name; my long-late mother
or father calling me.
And even though I know it cannot, cannot be, still—in
my wearied sadness—I return their calls.
And then—with a surprising force—realize how very much I love them and
need them, and miss them.
And that no amount of pleading or tear-stained
prayers could save them.
My sadness does not concern itself only with a
largely forgotten Past, but extends to try—in full—to capture and to embrace an
almost unbearable Present.
Never mind the situation that I now find myself in,
for that is something already too often mentioned and focused upon.
What makes me sad are the promises—so glibly made—but
that were never intended to be kept. The
false smile. The ready lie. How quickly was I dismissed as some irksome
and unnecessary fool.
The, ‘shadenfreunde’. The mendacity. The too-well-dressed Social Workers. The draconian Pain Management.
The overflowing pile of pills that—collectively—can never,
ever take away the pain.
The situations that make me have to beg.
The situations that make me cry in fury and despair.
The, ‘situations’, that have only, ‘one’ end…one
that I hardly need to mention.
But oh, my precious friends, please, please forgive
me for burdening you with my sadness; for I know only too well that you have
your sadness too.
I would so kindly ask that you speak to me of your sadnesses
and regrets.
For—perhaps—our sadness shared will help to make
that which is unbearable, bearable, and—in time—better understood.
I wish so much for you no pain, agony or
distress. I wish you comfortable and
contemplative days free of worry or need.
I wish you all the love that your kind, kind hearts
can hold; surely enough to make the sadness dwindle and fade away.
I wish you quiet nights, and blissful sleep, watched
over my gentle angels.
And—as
always—please, please know that I think of you so very often, and that I love
you dearly!
‘Zahc’/Charles
