I guess you could have called it poetic how by the age of 16 I had no recollection of what happiness tasted like on my tongue, but yet new well the taste of sorrow. Some might say it was poetic and tragically beautiful.
It was not poetic, nor was it beautiful, but it was tragic. It was so very, very sad, and that sadness has only expanded now that I’ve grown to see others seek glory in sorrow.
The sorrow of another is never glorious, never something to seek, unless to alleviate the source. Sorrow is not strength. It is a lump of hot iron in your chest that burns you from the inside out, and it is sour and harsh and repulsive to taste.
And yet still I have no right to think that the sorrow of another is anything other than tragic, or any less so than my own. Though it is human, it is not nature, your sorrow is your own, and belongs to no other.
Sorrow is like an abandoned building, empty and lifeless, resigned to a fate it does not know.
People never seem to pay much attention to abandoned buildings though,
until they become one.