Exanimis Dolor - The Inevitable Sadness of Unquenchable Sorrow

The morning arrives without color, a gray hand pressed against the pane. Light does not enter the room, it only reveals the stain. I wake as if from drowning, lungs lined with yesterday’s grief. Another day begins the same: no mercy, no relief. The house remembers every footstep, each one heavier than the last. Dust settles where I once believed this sorrow might not last. But sorrow does not leave. It deepens like a well in drought. The more I draw from its darkness, the less of myself pours out. The inevitable sadness of unquenchable sorrow… it does not rage, it remains. It seeps into marrow and marrow alone until even silence complains. The inevitable sadness of unquenchable sorrow… no fire, no flood, no end. It does not break me all at once, it simply does not bend. The sky hangs low with exhaustion, clouds bruised with an ancient weight. Time drips slow from the ceiling, a leak I cannot abate. I have begged for a storm to cleanse me, for thunder to split me in two. But this grief is quieter than ruin, and far more faithful, too. It sits beside me at supper. It sleeps where you used to lie. It answers when I speak your name, with a wind that does not reply. The inevitable sadness of unquenchable sorrow… it does not rage, it remains. It seeps into marrow and marrow alone until even silence complains. The inevitable sadness of unquenchable sorrow… no fire, no flood, no end. It does not break me all at once, it simply does not bend. There is no crescendo to this lament, no cataclysm to justify the ache. Just the steady erosion of breathing, and the knowledge it will not break. The inevitable sadness of unquenchable sorrow… it outlives the flesh and bone. It buries the living before they are dead, and leaves them to grieve alone. The inevitable sadness of unquenchable sorrow… it is patient, it is sure. Not a wound that closes in time, but a thirst without a cure.