The Boy Who Cried Woe
There once was a boy whose heart was full of woe. He knew not where it came from — or perhaps he did: from his ancestors, his parents, his house, people who carried woe too heavy to hold alone, and so passed it down. As a child, when he cried, help came; his tears screamed please, this weight is not mine to carry alone.
But the boy grew older, and the world changed its terms. Big boys don’t cry, he was told. So he learned to keep his woe in its box. When spoken aloud, it only compounded, and the other boys would push him just to watch it spill.
So the man built an armor of sunshine. Some of the happiest people carry the deepest woe. He shares his light gladly, hating that others bear the same weight. But he also learned, through difficult trial and error, that to show your woe to the wrong person is only to hand them a weapon.
There is only so much sunshine in the box. To keep it for those who deserve it is not selfishness; it is survival. Some speak the language of woe only to reach inside and take, and care in the language of woe is not care: it is hunger wearing care’s face. True care comes with love and support.
In this, the man breaks the cycle. He will not pass his woe forward; he will not hand his light to those who would extract it. And with this, he feels his weight ever so slightly lift.