Terminus

Could Sorrow be a visitor of our lives, merely to remind us of the agony sewn into every mortal path, or is It a parasite dwelling within us, meddled with the melody of our breath, everlastingly silent even when our hearts do not break and our souls do not ache? It is there, abscond from every mind though sensed by all, cryptically natant in the waves of our dark shelf beneath the carotid tide, yearning for the moment It may finally be brought to shore and breathe as though it had never before tasted air, among the sombre versions of ourselves. I know Sorrow is waiting, patiently, for the day It may flood our lungs with the ashes of our final letters and drown our souls in the molten wax of prayer-candles left to gutter and smother in the dark, because It knows happiness is but a brittle blaze, a wavering haze destined to fade, if it ever truly burned at all; because It knows each reaching hand that aches for light is answered by a deeper night; because It knows the unbearable truth we spend our lives denying and defying - that behind every light resides a greater blight, vast and starless, hollow and endless, and that the very ethos of our existence is this doom, carried beyond the womb of the world in the silent sprawl of the eternal fall.