Growing Moss

"..a drop falls,
and twin channels run south,
but still the sky is blue,
as rain falls from her eyes.."

Dear lonely isle,

Why do we cry?
What makes the tears fall? Is it that which make us human? Is it because we feel?
Then I do not wish to feel.
To feel hollow, empty, and void. To feel a stabbing pain that echoes in my heart, to feel it yet over and over again.
I do not wish to feel.
What is it when you cry every night? When your sleep is lulled by silent sobs, and the world slumbers on?
What is it when you cry alone, when nobody sees, when nobody hears? Why do you cry in silence? Why do you cry hidden from the world?
Why do you cry yourself to sleep?
Why do we cry?
Why do we feel this way? Pain. Pain. More pain. And so on, it goes, and endless cycle. Screaming out to be heard, to be saved, but all is silent, save for sobs buried in the pillow.
I do not wish to feel.
I do not wish to water my damp pillow, or to cultivate moss.
I do not want to cry. Anymore.
I hope to run out of tears, but every night proves me wrong.
I should be happy, indeed I am laughing. But away from the world, I tend to my garden.
I am not unhappy, yet every night I cry tears of sorrow.
I am not wanting, yet every night speaks of lost dreams and desires.
I am not alone, I know of this, yet every night I feel loneliness like a sharp knife. I cry myself to sleep.
But why?

Indeed, I do not wish to feel.

love, joyce.