I’ll think of something else.
I’ll think of my kids, laughing and running to me.
The swirl of snow on the open road, dancing in eddies that disappeared into the night.
My wife, looking up at me and telling me yes. Yes. There’s so much power in that little word. Yes.
All these things come into my mind. I know they should make me happy.
All these things leave my mind, pushed aside by the sadness that is always there.
Okay, I say. Talk to me. What do I not know that you are trying to tell me?
But the sadness doesn’t speak. It demands.
So I sit there as if happiness was an option.
It waits. It knows me.
It knows that I’m going to light a fire. Grab a drink. Try to lose myself in my senses.
But I don’t hear the crackling of the wood. Don’t smell the smoke or taste the burn of the whisky.
They’re there. I just don’t have access to them.
The sadness won’t let me.
It just sits there. Impassive. Unyielding. Blue. Formless and rigid. Waiting.
I don’t cry. Not really. My throat gets tight and my eyes well up, but crying comes with its own release, its own catharsis.
The sadness doesn’t want that.
It wants me just where I am, sipping my tasteless drink by a fire that casts no heat in a room that provides no shelter living a life offering no respite from its demands.