The Scourge Of April

Unhappiness seems to have polluted April abundantly, farther than it intended to wreak, I must add. T.S. Eliot, in Wasteland, incriminated April to be the cruelest month and given all the tales of despair, personal and otherwise, I am prone to agree with him. People I know in real life (and what I gathered among online friends) confess to moments of despondency. A young poet drowns misery in temporary escapism of alcohol, another one braces for untidy anguish of marriage annulment with nobility and quiet misery. Two other friends have had brushes with eviction and the same threat dangles above the head of another acquaintance. Everywhere I look I see sadness looming, loyally waiting for a prospect to sink in. Yet sadness overlooked humanity's deep reserves of tenacity. Refusing defeat we try and dismiss its presence, move on with a brave face. Inside, in silent hopefulness, we mumble the unspoken prayer that we will outwit its relentless pursuit. We quicken our strides and dissolve into anonymity in the hurried pace of the evening crowd.