Ring-a-round the rosie
Pocket full of posies,
We all fall down!
Little wide eyes,
Faint rays of the sun,
Bursting with joy.
Then we stopped.
Something in the forest.
Jenna’s mouth is wide open.
Emma is shivering.
Joshie is bleary eyed.
Five heaps of shivering bundles,
A frigid chill hanging over me.
Finally, Annie speaks.
“We’re going in.”
Collection of gasps.
We’re staring at Annie.
Finally, she started to shuffle towards the forest.
Finally, we’re wading.
Big, steady steps in the snow.
How to be Sad
First, attempt to be “unsad”. Imagine yourself being joyful and gleeful, imagine yourself as angry and explosive, imagine yourself as content and blissful, but realize this doesn’t work. Fail so hard, like you’ve never failed before. Sadness, you come to understand, is mind-numbing, back-breaking, pain-inducing, and you just savor it. You’re a cat enjoying its tasty, warm milk. You just can’t do anything else, you love your milk, stubborn as a rock. You realize it’s best to be insecure, scared, and timid. This is necessary torture, so you can proceed in being sad.
Next, feel the tears accumulate as you think about everything that went wrong today. Struggle to keep the tears from falling out where they can see. If they see, it’ll confirm your biggest fears, they’ll know you lacrimate, they’ll stare at you like an elephant in the zoo. Think that they’re right for demeaning you. Realize you can’t keep it in, there’s too much pressure accumulating under your poor, sensitive, hurting eyelids.
Push your chair over as you get up from the table as fast as the last time you sped down the stairs at Penn Station, running to catch your 2 train before it left the platform.
Run to the bathroom, it’s the only place that they can’t see. Start to cry, just as soon as you close the bathroom door. Turn the exhaust fan and the shower and the sink on all at the same time. Try to mask the pain of the tears streaming down your face and the lump in your throat with all the noise around you. Sit on the toilet and make seal sounds, gasping for air. Hoping that your lungs would shut off, that you get away from this madness. Hoping that they don’t knock on the door. Hoping that you would disappear. Hoping.
You hear the thump, thump against the door. They know, you think. They know that you aren’t okay, that there’s something wrong with you, that you need help. You hear them say: “Are you okay? Do you need help?”. Through the noise you tune them out. You love this sadness, you feed off of it. You continue to cry and think about the implications of opening the door.
What will they say to you? These are questions to ask yourself: Will they laugh? Will they make you see a therapist, with a pedophillic smile and machine-gun cackle? Will they call your friends? Will they ask why you’ve been acting off recently? You know you can’t change: the questions, and the crying, and the noise, and the pain, it’s who you are. From birth, it’s what you’ve been. With a sad brain that’s been cemented with sad concrete. There’s no going back.
You feel like a failure. You haven’t put every piece of paper in your house in its proper spot and you haven’t made your teeth impeccable. You understand these despondent thoughts are necessary to have perpetual sadness. You remember that it is your goal to feel this way. You may want to die. You may wonder if you can jump in front of your 2 train tomorrow. But you know, if you do so, you can’t feel sad. You, apparently, can’t feel sad when you’re dead.
Shut off the exhaust fan and the shower and the sink. Wipe your eyes. Open the door. Remember that you love to be sad.