Sorrow

It is in every corner and crevice you'll ever see, it is hidden in the pits of despair you'll eventually end in. You'll find it in every breathless sob you'll see and in every notion of history.

Maybe not at first, maybe not at all, maybe never, but if you're a little bit like her the moment you see it might come sooner than later.

The truth is, when she began seeing it, there wasn't a moment she couldn't not acknowledge it. Even from the corner of her eye, no matter where no matter when.

It began unsuspectingly, almost unnoticed, as it always did. Creeping up, slowly, almost methodically, it integrated into her life. Maybe calling it an 'it' was wrong, although how else would she have named the entity that followed her through the ends of time.

The first time she noticed it, and I truly mean noticed it, because previously, although subconsciously, she ignored it. Though not the true beginning, it was a beginning nonetheless.

The shadow appeared in the monstrosity called the Haven Bridge. The first time she passed the bridge under instead of above, 'it' oozed from the place but there was no shape no entity to give the eerie feeling to. Then, at the moment she felt as she was to burst from the unknown feeling, she saw the words, bloodied and black as ink displayed in monstrous letters on the concrete.

Sorrow

Written in the same jagged handwriting her grandmother had because she only learned to write when she reached her old age. She'd called it quits had the letters not disappeared a few moments later.

It has taken her a blatant sign like that, no, a memory, a traitorous part of her brain whispered. She escaped from the place like lightning. The accursed Haven Bridge was left alone yet again except for a few lost travelers that sought to come back home and ended up passing it.

From that time, it seemed to only get worse, from that time there was it, not a word, not only a feeling. Never just a feeling. From that day it lurked in the shadows, it lurked in every place possible and that's not an overestimation.

Because she ran, maybe it is called cowardice, maybe self-preserving. She called it the latter, not that she was avoiding the truth. Running away was the last thing on her mind. That's what she told herself. As we all know, lies don't tend to last.

The stops that followed were major cities, full of bright colors, smiles, and history to choke on. Every block had something new and inspiring, something bright and loud enough to muddle your mind for a brief period of time to not think about 'it'.

Still, even in the bright cities like Paris, she couldn't hide from it. She searched the best places the most frequently visited, the least visited, and so on and so on. The people around her held smiles and laughter echoed in her ears, and yet.

Yet she held no joy, no warmth as they did. Yet at the base of the Eiffel tower Sorrow was yet again written in a jagged, dead, handwriting. Yet across her sorrow stood, encompassing and present.

She ran away from that restaurant, although she won't admit it to anyone that asked, she left the bills in hurry not even counting was it enough or not enough, and stormed away like a hurricane that left nothing in its wake.

Only in her case, she tried to leave no place for sorrow.

The next stop was Moscow, which went similarly. Only this time she was in a small cozy apartment many would dream of. It was littered with every piece of memory that was bearable and she finally thought she'd left no space for sorrow. She saw glimpses of it, written in Latin even though everything was Cyrillic. She ignored them as she always did, they were, after all, just glimpses.

She dreamed of Sundays filled with morning brewed coffee and cookie baking but one unassuming Sunday it caught up with her. It caught up with her in the early morning and in the darkness that was lighted up by the new dawn.

Even as it was a marked with new beginning sorrow stood there, and it never moved from its self-assigned place.

Sorrow was there again, on the floor, more jagged than before. She left that apartment too and vowed that she'd have no permanent residences. She was like the sea, she concluded, too wild to tame and anchor to one place. That's what she tried to convince herself.

City by city, life after life, face after face, friends after friends, it followed. Soon she couldn't pass more than five minutes without looking around and over her shoulder, she slept with lights on such intensity that the light in hospitals was nothing to be compared.

Because by her logic if sorrow was held in darkness and permanence she'd eviscerate every notion of those two from her life.

But even in light sorrow stayed, even in births of new friendships it stayed, it stayed and it stayed.

She left cities after it flashed, not in a glimpse but a roar across the sky. She stuck to towns and villages and every remote place she could think of and yet. It followed. Whether in a taxi or an uber or a plane, it was always there.

Slowly but surely, she thought, she was going to lose her mind. One way or another. Because what was left of her now wasn't her, was it?

Was it ever her? Or just pain-filled, sorrow followed the husk of a person.

In the end, not even a village with warm smiles and homes could protect her, and as she boarded a train yet again she saw a glimpse of the word, not even a word anymore but a scratched thing, glimmering all over the place.

The hairs on her neck rose and it suddenly seemed that the heavy coats on her became two tons heavier, her blood pumped in her ears but the sound was irregular because she couldn't properly focus.

She didn't know how she managed to sit, whether it was by chance or she just collapsed but in the next moment she was sitting and staring off to nowhere and her mind clouded.

When out of nowhere, a butterfly accidentally entered through the open doors of the unmoving train. No one seemed to notice, no one seemed to particularly care. Except for one person.

Or well a child. But aren't children people? Are children followed by the same curse she was?

She stopped for a moment in that line of thought, why didn't it strike her that someone else, someone maybe tinier than her was experiencing the same guilt-ridden curse that followed her from place to place.

Perhaps maybe it was connected with the first question of wondering if children have the same worries as them, them being adults.

But isn't childhood marketed as a carefree and wondrous thing? For her it was a period of her life, nothing too exciting or God forbid dark. Yet the difference in their worries was obvious but still, there were worries, of what kind she couldn't remember, but she could remember the feeling. It was nothing pleasant.

Laughter, no, giggle broke her out of her mindless trade on the psychology of kids.

The same kid had the butterfly on his palm. His grin was giant and it was obvious he was stifling it as to not scare the creature. It lazily flapped its wings, not moving really. At one point the kid couldn't hold it in and burst out in joyous laughter that made her wonder after a few moments when was the last time she laughed?

And involuntarily, she smiled a small smile, barely there but still a smile. It was gone almost as it came and shock, more like confusion overtook her features.

All it took for a smile was a child's laughter at seeing the butterfly.

The same child was now running after the butterfly, the same grin on its face as before it scared it off. One goal is clear, to catch the butterfly.

Even if it seemed to no avail he chased after it, laughing and enjoying himself on the way, as if catching it was the most important thing and that thing was taken care of with such nonchalance that someone might've said he didn't care if he caught it or not.

But he did, but he enjoyed himself while trying to catch it, even if it seemed impossible.

Seemingly out of nowhere her breath caught and prickling of tears caught up to her. Why was she crying? Why now of all times?

She looked around for sorrow and saw it in a different place, less jagged this time, legible even. Was it a happy moment that changed it, or if it was something within herself? She already tried to bury the sorrow with happy places and people but she failed. Maybe she took it the wrong way? If she took it apart piece by piece maybe it would be gone for good?

No, no it wouldn't, some part of her said. It would always be there, but maybe instead of running away from it, she had to do something, but what? What could she do in the face of that monstrosity?

Perhaps, she thought as she watched the little kid laugh as the butterfly flew around his head, perhaps it was time to stop trying to change everything, perhaps it was time to accept that it would always be there but it would never be alone.

Because maybe happiness wasn't found in places and people and horizons, maybe even if you were in a place filled with happiness it wouldn't matter because you were filled with sorrow. Perhaps sorrow could coexist with happiness until all that was left was a dull memory that could only hurt when reached out to.

She smiled bitterly and yet hope was rising in her eyes as the train began moving.

Sorrow was still there, jagged as ever even though it was better than before, alongside it was acceptance and perhaps if she allowed herself a little bit of happiness in the simple fact of a child's laughter ringing over the train tracks.