I slipped into my sadness, one timid toe at a time. Sinking softly into the warm waters of woe. My skin dipped into the depression, and dazzled as though diamonds had set upon it. As I sank, lower and lower, I lost myself to the relentless retreat of me. Knowing not what I had or who I was just moments before. 

My tastes, my desires, the dry sense of myself, now whet against this worry. Now but a deep dark voided value where once had been hope or happiness or pacification. I fade ceaselessly down, down, down sharpened by the sorrowful longing of what might have just been. 

My eyes search about as I suck in one last huge gasp of breath, what is left of me aside from this stale air? I feel warm and wet and comforted, I know that nothing else matters. Not even myself. 

The small voice of who I am, sings out to me. Calling for reason, knowing, or even remembrance. It lingers not, though it does all it can to startle the sorrow back into its burrow. “This isn’t you. Not really. Not fully. Not always.” 

But this voice is a lie. 

I yearn to be swallowed by the plenitude of pain that I know to be true. Anything else is a carnival mirror, distorted and deceitful. Choke me down this callous neck of nothing, never to question or care. Gobble me up, grief and all. To be wholly one with you, unsympathetically unraveled, everlastingly out of sorts, inconsolably melancholic. 

Just me and this sultry sadness. 

To be sad. 

Only sad.