It is a delicate, almost predatory game we play with the soul. To allow the sadness to sit, to let it find the soft velvet of the armchair and sink its heavy, shapeless hips into the cushions, is to invite a permanent ghost into the parlor.

No. You must refuse it the luxury of rest.

Do not let the sadness get comfortable; do not let it unbutton its coat or find the slippers under the bed. You must keep it on its feet, pacing the narrow corridor of the breath. It must stay busy, a frantic servant to its own exhaustion. Let it work. Give it the heavy stones of the afternoon to carry. Keep it sweating until the salt of its existence stings its own eyes.

Force it to run until it becomes thin, transparent, a mere sliver of what it once was. Let it lose weight until it is light enough for the wind to carry away, leaving behind only the clean, empty space where a person used to be.

©️Beatriz Esmer