Sorrow

Sometimes sadness is so profound, it almost becomes a physical object. When it has a weight to it, and carrying it is not only emotionally tiring, but bodily exhausting. The backpack of sorrow, dragging shoulders and chin down, and straining the back; straps of shattered dreams scoring deep marks in skin so tough yet so fragile. Words becoming meaningless mumbles. Eyes of pity only draw more tears. Kindness is welcome but fruitless; this sadness cannot be broken, only weathered until the stone of time dulls its edge and the cut of the sorrowful dagger causes a little less hurt every time it is unsheathed from the scabbard of memory. Time. Friends. Family. Kind words; candles in the darkness, each a beacon to the passing pain, drawing it out little by little like a poultice on a stale wound. Each one by itself may make no difference, but put them all together and you may just make it through.

Thinking of friends.

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