Dear, I’m not sure I can ever pinpoint precisely what makes me sad, or if anybody can or will be able to. Songs like opera, make me sad. Thinking about how slippery and awfully precarious life is, and how much I want to nestle myself in the past, makes me sad. Not being able to do anything else but curl up in my bed, alone, makes me sad. And oh, the list could go on forever: strangers I’ll never love, never touch; fields I’ll never be able to lie in, stars I’ll never be able to see burn, memories I’ll never recall…When I realize that the people I love will keep on slipping, slipping, slipping through my fingers.

Days when the world feels all too raw and wounded — too bright, too harsh. Days when I feel so small, too small, and time too fleeting. For example. But you must know, that you’re never alone, and that although we may all just as well be lying like crumpled cigarettes in an empty street, we are still — we are still a thousand ashen-palms touching the sun. And that this sun, this glowing orange orb of so, so, so much light, is in each one of us.

See, sadness may be wallowing — it may make the night seem so permanent, so abiding — so cruel, so ruthless. It may make you forget the day. But don’t you dare, don’t you ever, let it go. It’s still there, I promise. Tolstoy once said that happy families are all alike and that every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. And to an extent, it’s true. Every person’s reason for falling is different. But in that well, in that deep dark well we each fall in and call sadness — we are never, quite alone….♥….Every day we need to trick the sadness, reinvent ourselves …♥