“the tormented heart doesn’t just find happiness, it becomes happiness”. ¬umeed merchant. “the ground beneath her feet” by salman rushdie
there are some sadness that only strangers can understand. i am probably trying to escape a past that would not let go of me. and you, i am not so sure. but it must be a kind of burning to make us not want to read each other’s stories to create something new that would transcend the complications of asking the ultimate question of why.
have i become so sad to rest my challenges on a bench, the faint streetlight illuminating the place beside the river, your quarter-bottle of mekong whiskey rocking us? so sad to let myself feel the grass on my bare back, your arms cushioning my head as your words drown in mine? are we both so sad to meander noiselessly into the night, trying to find solace inside each other’s skin?
this is the sadness that only strangers can understand. we succumb to it, hoping to make sense of fleeting things such as happiness.