Tears have become an antidote to longing healing that we call depression. I call it emotion. Sincere emotion, which is misinterpreted as a wild flaw that humans release, as a way to soothe a deeply inflicted sorrow. A pain indecisively, and rather slyly a motif, a facade even, that ignites sensation. Tears rejuvenate me, bring euphoria that transcribes itself rather oddly and sheds a layer from the opium and desirable feeling of sadness. Intertwined it has become a part of me. Conspicuous but concealed I hide in the depth of loath that build a steep, mountainous enragement within me. Unknown, Pompeii's exacts date of eruption, is stripped of certainty from the human eye. Now we are even. We both become a martyr, to the world as we're visited by many. Except demons parade in my world, celebrating the victory of the eruption, in which we both experience. Ash is a reminiscent of life. Tears turn ash into clay.
