Sometimes no one can see the truth except the person carrying it, living with it, going to sleep with it, tangled to it in bed, limb to limb.
The breakdowns in the showers that turn to long baths aren’t seen by anyone, neither are the immobile moments spent on the cold floor because it hurts too much to move because you keep thinking, doing so will finally be the act that makes you shatter.
It’s only behind closed doors that you cling on to your bed under the sheets and you keep thinking, “I don’t have to justify myself, my emotions are mine.” It’s only the silence surrounding you that makes you realize that even the absence of sound can be so deafening, so drowning.
Sometimes no one can see this because sometimes saddens, the gravity drowning your heart along with a million other things, comes in short skirts and burgundy lips in heels, walking from bar to bar, with a vodka water in hand, downing a tequila shot. Sometimes she wakes up even when she doesn’t wish to open her eyes up to the sun. Sometimes she wakes up with bouncy hair, a smile, a laugh so loud it resonates. Sometimes sorrow comes in the most beautiful, colorful and beguiling of disguises.
Because sometimes all we want to do is buy a ticket and jump on a train to destination anywhere, with a stop that leads to a place other than where this heaviness is, where you don’t have to think about what hurts you and face it everyday.
So we shave our legs, and do our hair, and we paint our faces literally and figuratively, even though doing so takes up all the remaining energy inside of our bodies, even though it hurts our heavy bones.
Sometimes coping just comes in forms of pretending. So we stop ignoring the ringing of our phones, make plans and talk to friends who have no idea of anything, hit the streets and let the city lights course through our veins.
We fall back into old habits – bad habits – with way too much ease. We’re thirsty, high and drunk on the act, we’ve got chatty mouths, hungry hands, and a fake light in our eyes. We begin to tear ourselves apart, yet again, in different ways only to let this heaviness out of our heart.
No, sadness isn’t always lying around crying, it rarely is, it also isn’t always curling up in a fetal position, numb and still, letting each hour dwindle away like petals on dandelions. Sometimes heavy hearts is what you wouldn’t expect, sometimes it’s moving too fast, baring too many teeth, it’s the loudest of laughs. Sometimes it comes with hands in the air, taking a joy ride out with the cool wind sweeping carefree hair.
It isn’t always painted in dark colors, it isn’t always out on the surface or visible to the naked eye. Sometimes it’s splattered in colors brighter than you could imagine, hidden beneath layers and layers of skin. Sometimes it’s holding hands with those you’d least expect on a bench or at the train station, waiting for the train to destination Anywhere.
This heaviness is the story no one talks about, this is the story that you won’t talk about ever… perhaps…