Sadness is the grey mist, the fog above the apple orchard trees; it takes a beautiful happy day and turns it dark and frightening. It hovers, cloaking the world, lightly wetting everything it touches. Tasting the woods, the grass, the clothes of those caught in its grip. A wet fog, breathing down your neck, sadness.
At first you avoid it, open an umbrella, try to go inside where its dry, sit with a book by the fire and listen to music. But soon you realize that fog is everywhere. It is not like rain, which lasts just a while and then washes away, refreshing the land, letting the plants grow, clearing the air. Sadness is not a good rejuvenating cry, its a constant sorrow. Fog has no purpose, no redeeming qualities. Fog turns blue skies grey, bright smiles dim, and scowls bloom like mushrooms.
When you realize you can't avoid the sadness some people get angry, fight the fog, but there is no fighting it, there is no tangible mass, nothing to fight and punch and kick at. The fog captured your anger, dulls it, absorbs all you have to give and keeps coming, You can not beat the fog.
Eventually the fog is a blanket, woven of large and small sorrows. You huddle in it letting it soak your hair and clothes, bath your face in the tears you long to shed. The fog knows your pain, it understands you. It whispers in your ear that it knows you better than your friends, better than your mom, that it can be your true friend, let it raise you, you will grow strong on the broth of sorrow. You wrap the sadness around you, a fog blanket, a cocoon against the world. The fog dulls all noise, the too-bright light of happiness; it becomes protection. You can relax in the fog, let go of your heavy smile, the burdens tumble from your shoulders and lay at your feet like oh so heavy rocks. The fog covers them from view. The fog whispers that it will take you away, somewhere you can rest, you must be so tired.
Eventually, you don't know why you fought against the fog. You don't want to be weak but what is weakness? Is it hiding your sadness or succumbing to it? The fog is all you know, it has been so long since the sun shone down bright in this apple orchard. The trees are little stunted things, deprived of light and love and children laughing in the branches. Sadness is comfortable, familiar, it coats the land. You make a pillow of your sadness and lie down. You know the sadness and it knows you. You can barely see the trees anymore, the craggy faces in their trunks, the darkening sky, the wet grass, it is all covered up by fog, and as you close your eyes you know that soon you will be too.