As a child we were told horror stories, really nasty terrible stories
of what'd happen if we did bad things. The dam would break and all the
sorrows of the real world would wash over us.
But it
was not our fault. That the dam finally broke from the crush of all the
tears shed into pillows deep into the night. The dam-makers, they did
not predict the sheer volume of grief in the real world. 10 feet thick,
they built, 10 feet of solid wall against the despair the
real world conjured up on a nightly basis. But it cracked, it shattered.
What
is this, you ask. Who are we. We are who we are, the people of the
tears shed into pillows deep into the night. Collecting every tear shed
by weeping bawling mourning people crying themselves to sleep. By long,
long tubes underneath the pillows of the people of the real world.
A
lot of tubes, really. And a lot more tears then you'd expect, from
people you don't expect. All pooling into our world. My world. And as a
child gazing into all those tears, I think "What a sad, sad world."
And
as I am now, awash in tears, each tear a story unto itself. The anguish
of a newly orphaned boy. The bereavement of a widow. The heartbreak of a
sweet lass just turned 16. The lament of a grieving father. The
despair. The agony.
And still, still, they come trickling down.
