On a balmy spring afternoon, he sat there on the floor, with flushed cheeks that carried rivulets of warm salty tears down its length. His raven-black hair stuck out amidst the library walls; walls that were no stranger to this boy, for after all, they had seen him grow to the age that he was now. He sat picking away at a rather obscure thought, one that had been discussed, and dissected over the eons, one that did not, however, had not been answered to his fancy.
Sadness is the purest emotion.
When sadness ascends the frame of your body, and takes over the planes of your mind,
you pay no heed to where you are, or who you’re with–
the emotion takes the reigns.
You could be a man of much self-assured hubris,
and yet, when sadness sings her tune, you care not where you are–
Looking at the blood reports, on a crowded hospital floor, confirming your worst fear,
Receiving a call during a Diplomat’s dinner, notifying you that your best friend has died.
No, not even the most proud and unshaken can silence sadness when she calls.
We are slaves to a Queen who ruled much before man,
who has seen more death, and fed more pain than we would ever know.
Sadness is the purest emotion,
for purity stems from a place of force,
a place of non-escape.
Where all are equal,
in one way or the next.
Flushed cheeks, pulsating against the rivulets that have now run dry; the ones that have now begun to pull at his skin. He cried, not because he pondered about sadness itself, but because the reflections it brought were far from happy. Reflections, like crystal rain, where within each drop he could see the sadness of his life, the truth in his thoughts, and the sheer weight of this dark reminiscence that kept him rooted to the spot, unable to wince, or think of another, for when the Queen spoke, she demanded all attention, and all attention she received.
And thus, upon once barren land, along grooves etched by forced rain, erupted more warm, salty rivulets.