I cannot write the saddest lines

by Yas Jayson Friday, August 05, 2011 6 palagay pensive bottles ranting ranting ranting vita brevis

Can we really bear more than what we think can handle? He always thought he can handle it all. All sadness, all responsibilities, all troubles, all mishaps, all failures. Then when all seemed too heavy to handle, he brokedown. He realized how small he is, how jaded he is all through out. Was he wrong when he chose to make people think he is the happy person? Was he wrong when he took all worries to himself and never bothered anyone to deal with it?

Even in a crowd of people who think shouting would make their conversation more important than the others, too alone he was. Too unoccupied. Too lost.

He cannot explain where his sudden sadness came from. He was too empty, too dry. He planned to cry that day but his eyes were an empty well. I haven't seen him cry real tears in years. Even in his most private moments, he cannot cry. For the first time, it shamed him not be able to cry.

He is better off dead. As in dead dead.

Then suddenly the ugly truth struck him like lightning. He felt too broken, too little, too human. I saw it, the most vulnerable him yesterday. I was with him at the tea shop when the barista asked for name to put on the cup, he asked her to spell Hope. For all the words in the dictionary, he picked hope. Pathetic. The barista knows his real name for he frequent the neighborhood tea shop yet she did not refuse. So she wrote hope on the cup and pour jasmine and milk.

She could have frown or laugh on writing Hope instead of Jayson. But she did it anyway. Not that she was obliged to. Maybe because she understood.

Returning home, he played the piano. The sad notes flew and travelled in the neighborhood and joined the fog that breathes on wall glass. When will someone for once stop whatever he is saying and listen to him? He was tired of listening. It was too

tiring to listen everytime.

He slept that night dreamless. Maybe dream is only for the just.