Sadness is liquid. It is the sweat that oozes out of your pores, gleaming and smooth; the salty tears that eventually become too heavy for your eyes to hold, rolling down finally free; the blood that gushes out a few days each month, pungent and pure.
Sadness is liquid. The seeming weakness of it biding its time within the bodies' crevices, eager to rush out, maybe become one with the ocean of sadness that served as home millions of years ago.
Aren't we all walking liquids? Our skins nothing but flimsy wrappers that attempt to hold us all in so we don't end up a mess of a puddle on the floor. There are times when a drop manages to seep out, as from a wound. And then we drip a bit of ourselves, sadness released, acknowledged and shared with the rest of the weeping and bleeding creatures. And who knows where all these droplets go, if not trickling back to that primordial ocean? Evaporating into the air to fall back down again, staining clothes and sheets as meek reminders of our shared fluidity and sadness.
Sadness is liquid. Wouldn't it be oddly comforting to think of how lovers share a bit of their loneliness at each exchange of fluid? And why else do we wallow, drown in our sorrows? Rumi talks of Grief drinking from a cup of sorrow.
We are careful to release just a bit at a time. It is how we survive, the life force itself. To slit one's wrist is to release too much. And yet not releasing enough can poison one's soul so we cry a little and let go some. It is the only way.
*Inspired by
Tin's entry 
