Claiming that only big words, more potent than three letters, could apply to their mood. Saying somehow giving it a name makes it tangible, like it’s not enough if it hasn’t got a title. They scream that this was never how they wanted it to be, as they just keep walking, following the same path that led them here. Somehow, deeper into the forest seems to hold more promise than memory. Or maybe miserable new is better than already visited old, but either way they march on. Carrying fickle burdens on malnourished shoulders, hunched over from years of abuse in the form of ignorance. Turn a blind eye to the body and it shall perish from disuse. 

So they all think they’re sad, sad enough to spout on about the hopelessness of everything. Talking about dark days and devoid dreams, trying to elicit feigned awe. The trying is where they fall. Because it wouldn’t matter, if it were sincere, no, it wouldn’t matter. Nothing would matter. 

There wouldn’t be a candle between them as they smoke their cigarettes on the porch with another. It wouldn’t leave their lips as they tell tales of the days when the eyes got wounded. Those ones who can pinpoint the moment when the glimmer left their eyes, felt the soul leave the body they say, their purpose permeating the air and fleeing the scene. They’re the ones who think they’re sad. They don’t know what sad is.