If I were any sadder I would be depressed but I stopped just at the verge of the two. I am swimming in the great ocean of my own sweat called angst. The water is made heavy with my distress that clinches my jaw to lock.
It is all too familiar though not at all visible. Only the cold sweat appears as teardrops once in a while for the trained eyes. Otherwise it is a quiet desperation.
When I was young I screamed with anger when it hurt.
Now, that I am too tired to put on a brave face, I am simply sad.