An Ineffectual Attempt to Feel Sad

There is nothing to talk about except sadness. This night, with thoughts hanging like fruits on a branch, from a tree along some road is just like any other night: Common and cool, bland and empty, noiseless and sad. Sadness from the world wearied world, as it turn, things cruel and faceless continue their acrobatic acts without a trap to call it a day, too much alcohol and morphine to sow from one new vein to another's liquid passage. Heavy steps sagged the unmoving cement, and cribs left in a dangerous playground. Women losing their last breath, and men losing their sense.

Sadness has breathed an eternal breath, like ashes cast across a body of water; a pillow of feathered lies flown freely, and audaciously into untrained ears. The lax hold of a lover's hand, and resistance from a mother's embrace. Perils abound, and arrests no one's attention except by time and ignorance.

Women lose their faith over womanhood, and traces for samples of leftovers to emulate, marching to the beat of a counterfeit drummer. Sadness overtakes them, and reverts back in time, to a patriarchal ideal: To surrender self-expression for servitude, to please and seduce, and finally, a dream product of the reductionist. Docile, sweet, gentle, pleasing, and bland like water is neither complementing nor useful to self-expression, reason, courage and self-belief - faux individuality has nothing to do with these qualities.

Digging into the histories of your neighbours and friends is exciting, as long as it isn't yours to be exposed, which usually presents a sadder version. However, it is effectively concealed, like a stretch on a panty hose, which is still potentially attractive to rip apart without much loss except general embarrassment by today’s social standards. Sadness is almost beautiful when it is pellucid like dew drops or a misty-eyed lover.

I lied many times, and sadly ineffectually.