suddenly i was sad

i was asked when i was about sixteen of what's the saddest place in the world. i said it was a graveyard because that's where we bury our friends, our family, our hearts, our dreams, our own caskets. Its quiet and foggy, reminding us that we are all dirt at the end. and as if we're not contented with the torture of piling up the soil, we put signages to remind us of those deaths. more so, we consider its ground as holy, when in reality its all just pain compiled in one place.

As i turned eighteen, i decided maybe abandoned buildings are much more gloomy than cemeteries, mainly because they have been forgotten. we make up scary stories just so we have a memory of what has been— or what should have been. its metals are rusty, foundations are not to be trusted anymore. covered in grass, and moss, and hope seem to be the windows broken by stray badminton balls. and after all its ugliness, and loneliness, we sometimes look at it and manipulate our minds to think that they are beautiful when in reality, they are inhabited because they are not perceived to be worth it. they are also most likely to be destroyed, demolished, and replaced.

but when i grew much older, about twenty-three, i realized that the most melancholic of them all is our vessels. The most mournful place is the one inside of us all. its where we dig holes, where desertion takes its nap, where we keep the horrible pieces of ourselves that do not have a puzzle to complete. its inside of us —the jail of thoughts, the lock of endings, the tragical room where we confine our tears. sometimes we are alone, sometimes we are suffocated by a crowd. There are endless possibilities, with thousands of situations, yet we know they are make-believe. Its lonely to use words and imagine they are beating especially when you have eyes that see the truth without its clothes. It is never sad anywhere but here, there, inside where we have mirrors reflecting our sins. inside where we can take blindfolds off and yet be blind. inside where we feel and not. I realized this when suddenly, i was an abandoned graveyard with about 365 decaying caskets for each day i basked into lamentations. i had no flowers because it felt strange to kill another life just so the deceased would feel less dead. It felt such a waste, to celebrate and make a bouquet from someone's demise and expect a crying land to smile. suddenly, i was the most sorrowful place in the world, and i was laughing as i watched my self sleep with no dreams. Nightmares, after all, are made by our terrible minds, coming from the distorted images we paint. and isn't it sad that we can feel anyplace inside of us, yet we choose to be a tale of empty spaces filled with bones and ghosts left behind by those who are alive?