“What’s up?” she asked, walking into the room and turning on the night lamp.
He looked sad and unanimated sitting on the bed and staring at the ceiling. Lost in his own world like a cow sitting in the middle of the road, unfazed by the chaos around.
“I’m all good! Just allowing this sad feeling to sink in” he said, softly.
She raised her brow. “What on earth!” she said and stopped abruptly. Like a mother who impulsively takes the stick to cane her child and out of love suddenly changes her mind, drops the stick and sits beside the child to deal with the matter more appropriately.
She sat by his side and rested her head on his shoulder.
A few moments passed before silence chose to depart. A sad tune started gushing in like water. She was the violin and he was the musician. An artist playing a sad tune.
“Would you believe me if I said that there’s an odd joy in being sad?” he asked. The violins sound growing shriller. Sadder. “Our sweetest songs are those that tell of our saddest thought” she said, quoting the famous line by Shelley.
He nodded faintly. “There is something in sadness. A ‘sweet’ pain. Reminding us of the existence of joy. Like the memories of the bygones, that still remain with us long after they are gone” he said.
“The next time you are sad, try fishing out this feeling. Look deep within, you might feel it, maybe” he said.
She smiled. At the remote possibility of ever being able to figure out how much she loved him.