What is Sadness?

A glass can be made so that, in the right light and juxtaposed against the right background, it looks as if nothing is there. Imagine one like this; a tumbler, moderately tall with thin sides and a heavy base so that it will not slide and, if clenched tightly enough, would shatter, cutting into whomever was so oppressive. The sides are curved up at the ends like a tulip. It is so clear, the only evidence of it’s existence is the refraction of light, or more tellingly, the refraction of the reflection of light back towards your eyes and if it sits on a granite counter top and you float directly above it looking down, to the dim-witted (or busy or unconcerned), it is invisible. Peering downwards, the stone will seem slightly larger and askew. From a parallel view, whatever is behind it will seem slightly to the left or slightly to the right, depending on how far away you are and at what angle everything seems to be situated. The glass is a portal for which reality passes through, but not without the slightest adjustment. The physical image of a glass isn’t really important, rather I just wanted to establish a shared concept. For now- for us- the glass exists. In my mind, I see an old fountain ink pen hovering above it. The pen is carved from jade or stained ivory and is what I imagine being used by a British expatriated accountant during the infancy of Africa’s colonization. It is more of a relic, but, for whatever reason, it has been dipped into an inkwell and the black dye drawn up into it the way a syringe will steal blood. A single drop of ink rests on the tip and it is very dark and the light creates a reflection on it so it looks like an oily tear. It is a tapered black pearl that precariously sits on the edge, like way I used to sit on the diving board when I was a child, dangling my legs off the edge, fully knowing that it was too high for me but also too proud to come back down, waiting to be saved by my mother. It flirts with the pointed brim, asking to be pushed off, begging for some sort of jiggle or shake to uproot it and send it careening down towards the pool or water below. And then it is. It is shook and it falls, an midnight bullet silently screaming towards the target below: without constraint or purpose, the ink questions existence. When the ink hits the water in the glass below and it’s force breaks the surface and the tension is released, it spreads in all directions, a murky consumption like black fire overtaking a home, like an ever expanding billow of smoke that confines. There seems to be no compromise. Even the smallest bit of ink will turn a much larger body of water black. When it hits, it is vicious and chaotic, spiralling in fractal patterns- a pervasive force that feels compelled to poison all that it can, a villain fueled by the mindless drive to obscure, to control. Once the ink enters the water, it is only seconds before an evidence of purity is erased. There is no evidence of struggle, no record of the internal battle waged. There is only a single glass sitting, filled with abyss. And to me, this is Sadness.