tears that were real

Sadness is. A page that doesnt turn.
No matter how hard we wish it.. want it. Try.
It doesn’t. like tar on cotton. like guilt on skin.

Sadness. The pages passed seem different. But we cant tell really. Because this page. This long page of this chapter. Or maybe this is it. Maybe there is simply. No more.
Paralysis implies we cant move.
Yet sadness, this time, Is like
Darkness to the blind.

He blinked. squeeze eyes tight. Howl.
We. forced the lids apart with our hands. We coax cajole command.
Yet. We see his little courage falter as he grip, so tightly, his forgetten reward of a brave transformer.
Half afraid to open because he fear the pain. Half because he no longer trust the eyes to give him sight without discomfort. We cry out. Him in frustration. Me. Weeping at a lack of any reasonable response.

Sadness. As we held him.
As we go through test after test.
Surely our mind knows. Everyone has such a page. Even now there are heavier pages from longer stories.
We dont have right to complain in the grand scheme of medical problem.
But this. Is never abt competition on a scale of life ranked morbidity and mortality.
This scratching of his cornea.
Even years of it.
She says it must have been painful. N i think of All the useless advice when we brushed it off. Lightly. For years.
The dye that showed the scratches. as though a trapped angry cat skidded across his eyes.
Someone slashed my wicked lazy careless heart to the sound of his sobbing.
This almost comical insane cause which manifested as easy brushed off cries. Truly. I failed him. For a yr. Or two. Or since birth. Or Too long.
Really. I did turn my ears. My eyes. Away. Where was the instinct? Surely no cleaner concrete proof. I had none.

We write to purge really.
And in days, pages to come. Maybe this is nothing.
Maybe it is not. I cant tell anymore.
This is the start of the reading of this page. This well deserved sadness of my failing.

I know now. Once again.
His mercies are new every morning.
Even if it is the same to me.
Yet He turns. He turns. Quietly. Thanklessly. Patiently.
Kindly. He writes.
He gives the bleak, a written promise from his spoken word.
Who to trust when i see clearly, it is not me. Never was.

I stared hours since the eye tests.
the page is the same. The sound of the children’s tired breathing. This ill fitting uncomfortable tightness in my heart. Constricts as i stare.

This Sadness is.
A page that doesn’t turn.

绝版吧
没正据 我们也活着过吗?

没了占据 我们依然不缺
绝綜吧
这世界
一亿 记忆

我们依然