when i was a child, i knew an old man who sat on the edge of the old bridge of my town. he only came out in the early mornings when i came out to play, and vanquished when the sun hung in the middle of the sky. he wore a kind face, one with wear and tear, one who had seen it all, but was still there in that day, living in the moment of it all, for he had nothing to lose.
he was an openhanded old man, he fished from the cerulean river below the old bridge, and sometimes gave me some of it when he was feeling overly generousโ to which i would give my family to cook for later. the old man would tell me stories of his times, of when he had ruled the world, when he had it all, and when he lost it all. his words were like a ballad in my head, they took me to somewhere magical, to somewhere i had never been before.
his words were tantalising, like a siren's song. his voice warm and comforting, an old folklore told by the fireplace. as a child, i was enchanted by his tales, i sat for hours on the bridge listening to the old man's tales, relishing in his stories. the stories he told transported me into a different world, and i could see what he told me with my own imagination. but when the saga ended, i returned to the normal world, where the old man fished on a bridge, not helping the genteel lady with finding her twenty cats, or finding true love across the heart-shaped pond.
the old man would always have a moral of his stories, and some were common sense, some were a premonition, and some were fairytales which held a deceptive truth. the morals he taught me, i've remember today. they have all told me something i could not have known before, and many people blindly live without knowing this. there has one that always sends a chill up my spine every now and then. it was a caution, a warning to stay safe. now i will tell you his wise words, for they were meant to be retold, again and again.
this is a story of a young lady, one that drowned in her own tears. she lived in a grand house with five storeys, each a twisting maze, each room a hidden treasure in its own. the dame owned a garden so vast, it held a lake in it, surrounded by rolling green hills and multicoloured beds of flowers- and not a single weed in sight. she was well loved in her family and her friends, and she loved them too, always helping them out in every way possible. yet the miss was lonely, the house was empty, despite all of the staff she hired.
so she sought for a companion compatible for her. the young lady was popular amongst her townspeople, she had the looks of a porcelain doll and a heart of gold. when news came around that the damsel of their town was looking for suitors, all of the men eligible in the valley and further came to see her. they each were promising, each were oh-so-kind to the maiden, but fought each other when she wasn't looking at them.
one suitor stood out in particular, he was stunning to say the least, when he arrived at the manor, the other suitors knew they all paled against him, but he still thanked each and every one of them for their kind comments. naturally, the two married, and the were perfect in every way. the man loved his wife, and visa versa. the two would always smile and give gifts to the young when in public, and everyone envied their relationship.
that is, until the man left the now, older lady for his mistress in another country. he had no regrets, and he left without saying a word and the miss was once again, lonely. at first, she was filled with hatred for this man who had devastated her with no children, and no contact, or at least a simple "goodbye". but her heart was broken, the cracked gold in her soul was too heavy. yet she had no choice, but to continue with her life. it wasn't easy for her, everything she saw reminded her of the man, and she couldn't help but feel sorrowful whenever thinking about him, always telling herself how she could've kept him by her side.
the now-widow had heard from her circle of friends that there were people that could help her get over the pain, ones that would listen to her troubles and help her solve them. so she ordered her sixth butler to find someone to console her sorrows, one to give her encouragement throughout the day and reassure her that what she had experienced would soon pass, too. the butler came back, days later with an older man, his hair starting to grey, skin starting to bag and beard turning white. and yes, this was none other than the old man on the bridge.
with the help of the old man, the lady was feeling better about herself, but it was not an easy process. the old man would have to coax her out of her bed on some days where the sky was too grey for the miss to come out of her bed, or tell her his own tales to cheer her up when the sky cried for her. the two got along very well, and soon, the woman was starting to recover from her broken heart. slow and steady won the race, never the fast paced hare that ran too fast. that on it's own is a story to tell, but that's beside's the point.
but the madam felt unnerved when she was happy, she didn't want to feel happy some times. it was as if they were stuck in an endless cycle of happiness and sadness. she wouldn't say much about it, but she once listened to a record of a song, and the lyrics stuck in her head, they repeated in her brain over and over again. the words itself were obscure, looked over. but there were people out there that must've felt the same as she did. they were sad, and they "missed the comfort of being sad.".
and when she had her bouts of sadness, it dawned on her, she did miss the sadness when it was gone. it was something she never had thought of or wished for, but it was still there. the woman would escape the emptiness gap in her heart and replace it with sadness, because feeling negative was at least better than feeling nothing for her. there were some days where the lady would try to cheer herself up, but there was nothing there for her but sadness, and it embraced her. it was her friend.
the old man had no cure for this sort of bout, despite all his knowledge, despite his efforts to change the woman's attitude. he would helplessly watch a full-grown adult drive herself into a delirium as she chased a greater feeling, a heightened emotion. a honey that was so dangerous for her, for anyone. it was only until one day, where the lady went for a swim in the lake, only to never be found again, drowned in her own tears in the lake she had owned.
this story would have no meaning, just a rambling tale, if not a nod towards our today. the generation i see and live in is scared. the generation that has barely risen encourages each other to keep on trodding on their life long journey, yet they themselves find it hard to find an inspiration to keep moving along with their life. the old man is now long gone, but this moral is everlasting. "be cautious of sadness, for it's expression is captivating, but to depend on it is a fool's choice, and they will fall faster than anyone."
i love you all . please, stay safe .
wc: 1350 | head in the clouds โ joji
this was written at zero in the morning, i might edit it later.
