Pathetic without the Fallacy

“It’s four in the morning,

Things are getting heavy and we both know that it’s over

But we’re both not ready.

You’re talking like a stranger, so I don’t know what to do
I’m callous and I’m cruel, to everyone but you.”

There are days of increasing darkness in life, soaked in tendrils of smoky cloud from a sky that is lacking in any sign of the sun. These tendrils, poisoned with droplets of rain that fall to the earth and crash against its skin, against your skin, these tendrils of elongated and grotesque fingers reach straight for your throat and take hold. They choke you from the inside out and make your skin crawl with scarab like insects that feed on your pain and the sadness welling up inside you.

I heard once that your eyes decide how you cry, the left is for joy and tears that come from feeling such happiness that it needs to escape your body in the flow of salty crystals that wetten your cheeks; the right eye is for pain, emotional and physical. It is this eye that weeps and sobs and wails… this eye that starts the flow of fat opaque droplets that roll solemnly down to the ground below. Much like the rain from the ominous grey that is present in the sky right now.

Pathetic fallacy is something that should be reserved for works of literature and poetry, not for life. These clouds can’t help a wounded mind as it pounds and falters… darkness should be reserved for those who need it: cat burglars and run aways. Not for the hurting, the waiting, who sit alone and stare out of the window while they reminisce. Writers are not meant for the real world, they create and dream; they don’t hold well under the real threat of real emotion. The bottle is a muse for the many who fall under the weight they carry as their hands and fingers create a different world.

From the girl who spoke to flowers to the boy who grew up righteous. On the days that get dark, days like this, they’re the ones who choke most and stumble from the wreckage they leave behind.