There are times when sorrow seems a dearer and closer friend than joy, so close that falling into it feels like returning to a mother’s womb, suffocating maybe, but still warm in its familiarity.
Doggedly following us around like a faithful dog, as resilient as the cockroach that adapts to every climatic change while remaining essentially the same, I can sense its shadow creeping behind me, waiting to greet me again.
It’s tempting to look back and smile at it, but all I have done is thumbed my nose and walked away, with head held high.
I have been told that I do that too often by people who ought to know. And I am afraid of looking back even a teeny weeny bit, it could get addictive again. A poet once told me that poetry requires heartbreak or words to that effect, I wonder if that is why I am in no mood to pen any poems down.
Because I have bid a staunch friend good-bye.