veins pickled with sadness
When personal calamities pile up like crushed autos in a freeway disaster, sometimes a bitterness leaches through my bloodstream that I can almost taste.
Right now I'm sad. It's the same feeling I'd have when autumn would creep in and kill the summer, when night fell on a lonesome Sunday, or when I was saying goodbye to somewhere or someone I knew I'd never see again.
I wish I could cry, but men are weaned from crying to the point where they become incapable of it. I'm convinced that men live shorter lives primarily because we're not allowed to cry. Boys can do it, but it's eventually beaten out of you, often literally. Men just have to bite down and swallow and let it ravage their innards. Women, well, they bawl at everything. They cry at yellow lights and raindrops and misplaced shopping coupons. They're especially good at crying when you need to cry and can't.
Tomorrow I'll be angry or goofy again, but for now I'm just sad.
