My Melancholy Sadness

Today while at work, I saw one of the most beautiful fragments of love that exists. A man came in, a ragged, sad look on his face, tiredness worn into his features, and as I made his drink for him we started to talk. His wife is in the hospital, and he has spent the last week sleeping on a cot next to her bed; his every thought resting on the comfort of the one person he loves so dearly. And as he told me the meager details of her illness and his fears, a sketch of this deep love formed its vague outlines in my brain, and I could not erase him and his worried cares from my mind.

Despite the incredible last few days I have had, for some reason tonight I sat apart, silent and alone, neither desiring to speak up nor to be with the crowd in which I sat. Irritation with my own feelings, a certain feeling of frugality and worthlessness hung over my night, shadowing any enjoyment I felt. Perhaps it was the feeling of another wasted day, or perhaps the dreading of the monotony of another week of work.

Whereas my fears before found root in the uncertainty of the future, my mind has replaced this old fear with a fear of losing my dearest memories to the passage of time. Time washes though your memories, leaving the giant boulders smooth and flawless while washing the little details of the memories off the face of the boulders, dragging the tiny surrounding pebbles out to sea. I do not want to lose my pebble memories, and in this quiet fear, I cannot stop the shapes from leaking down my face. These small drops crudely display the excess of emotion and weakness I feel: this feeling of being dragged helplessly through time, unable to fight nor delay the inevitable changes.

Life changes, and despite the stubborn tantrums we humans have, it is a sad truth we can either accept or fight all our lives, filling the spaces with the tears and the dirt of our fruitless labors. Why is it that I find myself fighting so hard to secure my own spot on which to stand?