Sorrow is the
texture of sandpaper, constantly shredding and filing and grating on your skin,
rubbing you raw until the pain in unbearable.
It sounds
like rain, tapping on your window, relentless, just enough to make your head
pound and your chest ache for freedom.
Looks like
tumultuous water, you see the hints of motion from a distance, but once inside,
you’re trapped, forever doomed to toss and turn and drown.
Tastes like
ash. Dusty and stale and dry and
nauseating, turning everything grey and wasted.
And it smells
of poison, a dark, pulsating mass of deadly force, inching ever closer, making
your nose and throat burn and stinging your eyes.
Sorrow is not
for the faint of heart. Sorrow is not
for the weak. Sorrow is internal warfare
of the heart and mind and none of its soldiers come back the same.
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