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Grown Woman Sadness
Everything I seem to write is bloated with sadness.
The mechanism that runs inside me is oiled up with all the grease of my melancholy. I would let the pen dance on a paper, and watch as the ink bleed tears and all the unsaid apologies I had harvested on nights my screams laid trapped in a pillow.
My lungs are tequila drenched sand bags, and yet every time I submerge myself in water I float, because of this void inside me. A hollowness the size of an ant hill or a bird's nest, it always depends on the day or the type of music I hear when I'm reminiscing. It's haunting time, you see. When Spotify knows the eerie coincidences of what a lonely person wants at 3am, alone with her sadness in a bowl.
What do I do with all of my grown woman sadness? Should I scrape it off and let it congeal, freeze it and consume it with bourbon? I am currently awake, driving around at the same park we used to go to. Watching all the scenes in my head, like a filmstrip of my favourite romcom movies. And how all I ever wanted was to put you and me, in a hushness—a quiet no-one-exists-but-us little world.
But that's bullshit. You can't be in someone's world, and expect them to be the only one in it. After all, 9 billion souls are either too lonely or too sad out there. And poetry, music, art, sex and movies can only do so much band aid solutions for your idyllic romanticism.
Maybe that's why, all I seem to write these days, are bloated with sadness. Because, I can't seem to know the difference anymore between—being alone or being lonely.
The mechanism that runs inside me is oiled up with all the grease of my melancholy. I would let the pen dance on a paper, and watch as the ink bleed tears and all the unsaid apologies I had harvested on nights my screams laid trapped in a pillow.
My lungs are tequila drenched sand bags, and yet every time I submerge myself in water I float, because of this void inside me. A hollowness the size of an ant hill or a bird's nest, it always depends on the day or the type of music I hear when I'm reminiscing. It's haunting time, you see. When Spotify knows the eerie coincidences of what a lonely person wants at 3am, alone with her sadness in a bowl.
What do I do with all of my grown woman sadness? Should I scrape it off and let it congeal, freeze it and consume it with bourbon? I am currently awake, driving around at the same park we used to go to. Watching all the scenes in my head, like a filmstrip of my favourite romcom movies. And how all I ever wanted was to put you and me, in a hushness—a quiet no-one-exists-but-us little world.
But that's bullshit. You can't be in someone's world, and expect them to be the only one in it. After all, 9 billion souls are either too lonely or too sad out there. And poetry, music, art, sex and movies can only do so much band aid solutions for your idyllic romanticism.
Maybe that's why, all I seem to write these days, are bloated with sadness. Because, I can't seem to know the difference anymore between—being alone or being lonely.
