They call me,
Calamity.
It's sad to see
Inside of me.

They found me,
Calamity.
A shattered tree;
What life can be?

They hate me,
Calamity.
Be proud to be
Right here with me.

They call me,
Calamity.
I'm mad to see
the end with glee.

They found me,
Calamity.
I was not free
To be just me.

They hate me,
Calamity.
Up in a tree
Where they can't see

They call me,
Calamity
It's not a name.
It's a warning.

The boy didn't know
if he was ever happy
the way others were.
He was happy
a lot of the time,
these days,
but
he wasn't sure it was the sort of happiness
that other people felt.

He had always been different,
and his experiments with
counseling,
medication,
yoga,
exercise regiments,
diets,
religion,
alcohol,
love,
work,
and ambition
always ended with the same dissatisfying result.

He could not exceed
the bounds and bonds of somber, solemn, solitude
for long.
He always drifted back
to the shores of sadness and slowness of mind.
He had a soul like a nervous bird
and it never stayed
in one emotion
for long.

Generally, it flew back to the nest
it had made
up high in the boughs
of quiet, calm, hopeless sadness.

When a moment of sadness overtook him
it was a living force.

Depression
set into his bones with such profundity that
it echoed a melancholic wave
into the atmosphere.

The very fact of his sadness
developed more sadness
in him and into the world.

He was a sadbeast;
the nighttime was his comfort
as often his tormentor.

A sadbeast isn't unhappy, per se,
but is always bittersweet,
even in the fresh morning light
amidst the dewy grass of a clear field.

With the sounds of birdsong in his ears
and a quiet prayer on his lips
the sadbeast could be equal parts
miserable and joyous.

There was no sense
in the sadbeast's heart,
and there was no emotion
in the sadbeast's mind.

He was a creature severed so purely
between this world and the next
that each breath was like
the first and last
for him.

He could know only peace
and no comfort.
Only fury
and no quiet.
The sadbeast couldn't die,
and he couldn't properly live,
either.

He was a boy
who knew only
the best way to be sad.

That never sat right in his mind.

Always pressured
to try and be happier,
the sadbeast learned
how to appear happy
no matter what might be felt.

His eyes reflected back the joy
that other people felt
so that the waters of his own soul
might be shielded
from their prying eyes.

His face was a mask
and a mirror.
The onlooker wouldn't see
a sadbeast,
but would see whatever animal
they themselves were.

His mirror-mask would show
joycrawlers and bubblybees,
cheermonkeys and lovebunnies,
happypups and pleasureweasels.

Other people found
their less fortunate images
would be reflected as well,

and so the boy
was mistaken for
a drearydove and a cryfrog,
a hollowflower and a weepinghart.

So perfect was his imitation technique
that the sorrowful ones thought
they found a kindred heart,
while the joyous ones thought
they found one of their own brood.

This did not make the sadbeast less sad.

Instead, it made the sadbeast more deeply despair.
No longer did his sadness exist in
a state of bittersweet melancholy,
or holy solitude,
or pure and quiet spiritual death.

In the place of what had been
a healthy and lone sadbeast,
content to be sad and happy
at the same time,
was a mockery
of a happy-mimic.

The sadbeast
was so convincing in his charade
he had forgotten his own soul.

The pools of joy
that sat upon his mirror-mask
hid his own heart from his eyes
when he looked upon his image.

Instead of simply
being unhappy and uncomfortable
with his own oddity,
the sadbeast became obsessed
with making himself a whole-happy-creature.

His quiet solitude
after the sun's setting
slowly lost its peace
and became only torment.

The sadbeast
was furious and crazed,
screaming like a wounded animal
but unable to find his own wounds.

Of course to any onlookers,
he seemed to be ridiculous.
As his own confusion set in,
so did his mirror-mask slip down.
No longer aware of his own act
the sadbeast wasn't able to continue
the masquerade.

Other people passed the boy
and wondered at why a sadbeast
would be so concerned at becoming
a proper happy-creature.

It was no more reasonable
than a fish trying to fly
or a worm trying to run.

But the sadbeast
was in such a fret
that he ignored the warnings,
the ringing words of the whole world
fell on ears attuned only
to the sound of his own screams.

The sadbeast journeyed
for many days and many nights
looking for his lost parts.

He never found them,
because none were missing.

While he trampled through the world
he listened closely to his own cries.

He heard the echo of woe in his tones.
Though
he was slow to remember,
the sadbeast began to recall
the heaviness
of his own heart.

Like forgotten, comfortable clothes
the boy began to wear
the trappings of his old self
again.

As his clarity returned
his hands brushed against the mirror-mask
he had worn so long.
The sadbeast discarded it,
realizing the villainy of such a device.
For to deceive the whole world
one must deceive one's self.
To lie
to one's own heart
is to poison what lies inside.

No man can bear the poison of his own tongue
for long.

It is better to live as a sadbeast,
weeping at the wind
and clutching at the dirt,
than to die in pursuit of a lie.