I’m not mad at sadness
I have always managed to understand the motives of all emotions. Emotions of animals and objects and colors and places and of you and of me.
I’m not mad at sadness. I’m sad at sadness. It knows nothing but itself and its duty is still fulfillment even if that fulfillment be to empty a soul.
A mosquito sucks out blood because it is a mosquito. It pricks and makes us itch because that is all it’s genetically blueprinted to do. I still curse the mosquito. But I understand it. I respect it—because survival is deserved everywhere, not just for us.
A table’s loose leg will give out with more weight than it can handle because it is a table’s loose leg. It wobbles and wobbles, always silently begging for a fix. I curse what fell off the table when it broke. It tries to stand but eventually it decides to give itself a break. I want it to be stronger. But I understand it. I respect it—because being strong can be just as much as giving in instead of holding in a pain it doesn’t deserve.
An organ will fail to play properly if rust builds up because it is a rusty organ. It does it’s best to play for the fingers and feet that tap and pump—same fingers on hands that never took care of it. I want it to push through regardless. But I understand it. I respect it—because every organ deserves the care it needs to live long, just like the organs inside us.
Colors can merge into each other and combines two original ones into one something new entirely different one because colors are colors. It is often that of watercolor. Red and blue meet effortlessly to follow fate in their meeting and their now drip-defined future now called purple as a pair. I want them to separate; call them red and blue. But I understand it. I respect it—because colors are colors and to have red and blue met and agree to transform to purple is exactly what red and blue do.
The truth is that I won’t appreciate all of the things I understand. I won’t accept all of the things I respect—but I won’t deny that what needs to be as itself, what it needs to survive, what it wants to become is deserving.
Love is one thing. Like is another. But anger? Anger is so perfectly prim and proper and precise that to use it on things that are merely being loyal to themselves is to fail to be yourself entirely.
I’m not mad at sadness. I’m sad at sadness.
My own looks at me and frowns.
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*a less than half draft of something unwritten*