Sadness: What Accumulates Inside Me
Grief is a fullness that no longer functions. Everything remains in place, yet nothing works the way it should.
The organs are still there— they do not warm, they do not give life, they do not move.
They are transparent. Because what lives inside me no longer belongs to me.
After separation, a person exists like glass. One touch too close, and the fracture becomes permanent.
This fragility is not weakness. It is the quiet understanding that there is no returning to who you were before.
What is usually hidden becomes visible through grief. The inside spills outward.
Everyone can see it. No one can touch it.
Transparency is exposure. It is vulnerability without defense.
That is why the space is cold. The light is merciless. Everything is neutral.
This is not an anatomy laboratory— this is reality stripped of emotion.
The organs are not colorful. They are not alive. They do not bleed.
They are things that are felt, but no longer able to feel.
What accumulates inside me is not tears. Not blood. Not screams.
What accumulates inside me are the sentences never spoken, the farewells never lived, the touches that ended too soon.
Transparency is the moment these emotions finally take form.
