I just realized how comfortable I have grown with sadness, she is not merely an acquaintance she is more of a companion. There are so many things common between anxiety and sadness, so much so that you don’t know when your anxiety morphs itself to become sadness. The best I can describe what I felt now is sitting in the middle of a huge bookstore, walls covered with books too. Overwhelming yet comfortable almost a place you like and I sat there admiring the books being comfortable for hours knowing that it is going to collapse on me, I sat there brewing in it. And within minutes it collapsed. Everything. Me, the books, their history, their intentions. it hurts, made me breathless and still I lay there brewing the pain, the anxiety that turned into sorrow. The only reason I can’t think of for my sadness is my unwillingness to fight it. As I lay there under the crushing weight of those books, the smell of those old mouldy books was so enticing that I wanted the darkness to consume me.