I am sure that I was born with heartache in my heart. This must be why a rainy day feels so right to me.
I carry it everywhere, even when I am truly, brightly happy. Even at my happiest, my heart still beats a sorrow that I barely notice anymore.
Maybe this is where obsessions are born from, a distraction from the grey mist that feels all too comforting. Is this why I run? Do you run, too?
I am drawn to the figure in the photograph that is disfigured from blur. Her edges gone, a soft madness remains.
Despite it all, I function. I know joy, I love deeply. It is not depression (I know depression). You would never know, unless you caught me walking alone, eyes turned down. Then, you might now.
I will give it attention from time to time, questioning it, curious. I used to fear it. Nights alone, even as a child, would give it strength and I would seek comfort through any distraction available to me. Re-runs of Seinfeld could help. Now I just wonder about it. What happened in a previous life that makes this one so lamentable?
I heartache for all suffering. Mother Earth, humanity, the strays and the unloved, the homeless, the lost, the overworked, the underappreciated, the beaten down and beaten senseless. I carry it all.
It is part of me, not to be a cause for alarm. It is a reminder of my connectedness with all things and I would not wish it gone.
This must be why a rainy day feels so right to me.