Living For Another Mourning

There is a sadness so intense and matted in our fibre that only comes out in dreams so bad they make us cry in our sleep.

This grief so profound, it finds no voice in the light of day. Instead it occurs to our subconscious to express itself at our most vulnerable, when we are at rest. It is a release and a relief to cry in our sleep, to wake up wondering why there are tears on our pillow at the notions presented on the silkscreens of our minds, which otherwise are buried in the every day of every day.

A name, a face, a sound, a smell, we can face them without tears in the light of day. But when a mind is left to its own devices, a harsh honesty, one that cannot be controlled by human conditioning, forces us to confront ultimately and truly what troubles us.

Pain that has no place in the distractions of each day's events will not be left alone. It refuses to lie dormant, it does not want to stay silent. Cannot. Will not. Point blank refuses to behave.

So we cry in our sleep, all a part of the way we get rest, part of a secret healing. A lachrymal ministry perhaps, a balm no doubt, a relief no less. No one should be woken from such a rest. No one should be interrupted from such troubled sleep. There is a process that must run its course, until the last drop is shed.