Sadness

How easy it is to indulge in fine melancholic sentiments. And how easy it is to be sad, and to wallow. Yes, I've been trying to write with all my senses throbbing, but I inevitably end up staring into nothing, numbed by sadness.

Love comes and sometimes it is like a grand parade, sometimes a quiet visitor that knocks shyly, and sometimes like a cat that steals in through the back door. But always when it leaves it does so with a contemptuous flick of its tail that lashes back at you. I had always thought that with enough experience with it one can become accustomed to its peculiar workings, and shrug off its occasional meanness as the occupational hazard of having such a guest over. Not so. No matter how many times you try to attune yourself to it, and steel yourself for any surprise, it always has a hidden trick up its sleeve. One you won't be prepared for, and one you won't ever see coming.

I don't know which is worse - to get hit when you're not looking, or to have to watch the blow coming.

How easy it would have been, too, to console myself with philosophic ramblings about love. Yogic philosophy believes human love to be inevitably imperfect, mere shades of the Great Love we will only know with the Divine. But even the greatest spiritual aspirant is still human, and a fine prey for the pitfalls of a very human love.

And how easy it is, too, to lash back at love. But I won't do that. What would be the point? Maybe if I accepted it for what it was I can get myself a discount card for having been a loyal customer, and bargain for a reprieve the next time it comes knocking.