Where is sadness birthed? I mean, from what eternal wellspring does it rush to me in unexpected, assaulting moments? Is there some mystical river, or pit, or ocean fissure which pulses hot with the weight of it?
Or is it a contagion, each of us infected carriers with varied levels of symptoms?
Or even still, a persistent house guest with whom we occasionally are required to sit, with tea, at the breakfast table?
Sometimes I carry you lightly, like the tiny hairs on my forearm — ever present, but rarely felt.
Other times you rise hot within, like charged magma, quickly inflaming my words, my dignity, my loved ones.
Yet you will always be part of me. Ethereal, but embodied — perhaps encoded in my very DNA.