A Sad Man's Goddess

It is simply an observation.

The sad man’s goddess is very much present in all men who have, every day, had to share a roof with that paradoxical structure of undying love. This goddess they revere may have loved them too at one point, or never at all; yet the sad man will consistently love the goddess herself. He may jest himself, and believe all is in order by day, but at the eve’s fall the inevitable worshipping begins.

                He may wonder what she is like, the goddess. Hours into the night, he will ponder her voice, her appearance, what it would be like to meet her again. From this pondering, a yearning falls into place; a yearning for the goddess to land with gentle wings upon the earth, a yearning for her to make her presence clear. Long will he yearn, and years will elapse in kneeling sadness at twilight, disappointed at the ever present void never filled.

                Like the common theism, no other goddess is accepted; no other goddess exists. The sad man will assure himself and persevere through waves of tears, gales of anger, and unending hours of melancholy. Waiting only brings forth doubt and questioning. Does his goddess exist now? Has he been abandoned and forsaken to a perpetual pain of knowing what shall never be? Oh, how the tears will flow on and on still.

                Angry at himself, he will self-condemn for heresy. Doubt? Blasphemy!

                As the years pass, signs of the sad man’s goddess fleeting, he can only graze in a limbo, floating without a plan and awaiting his final destination of isolated sorrow. Even at this stage, he can resist his own thoughts, and continue to self-condemn. The goddess whom he prayed too, prayed for, and awaited her arrival, still slipped further away towards “prettier” skies.

                Where does that leave the sad man? Ah, you should find him rotting in his now barren land. Not even the howling winds sweeping the dust away will linger for a moment over him. Emotions of all kinds have been drained from him; as he clings to stone tablets with words of the goddess inscribed in them; as he still has the tune of songs he had written for her fresh in his memory; and still as he stares dry eyed with his mouth gaping towards the clearing in the sky for her to gaze (it is barely visible on the horizon).

                With a keen ear, you may decipher the mumblings of denial he makes every now and then through the sun-dried flesh on his face.

                “I, heretic.”

Author's Note

I will not bore you in explaining what caused this.