The indulgence of self-pity

A tinge of sadness that needs addressing. The lack of time for commiseration and the million things that demand immediate attention. More than anyting else now, I want to be sad. I need to be sad to mourn and get rid of it. It is my body that needs the indulgence of self-pity and I cannot find the space for sadness.
 A phone that rings in silence. It is blood and I cannot take the call. A second ring. The insistence unleashes a rush of adrenaline permeating my every pore. Blood is stronger than water. Love-driven imperatives supercede all other feelings. I cannot be sad when action is what my brain and my heart at crying out so loudly I can practically not breathe. There is a whilwind and I drive in it, oblivious of everything around me.
I conjure strength and the Powers above. I imagine scenarios. I devise plans and solutions. Nothing else matters because blood is so thick. Not them, please. Strip me of everything but not them. I am as insignificant as to be nothing. Do unto me as You please, but not them.
False alarm.
I pray as I crumble down to the stress of those long, excruciating minutes. Relief is physical. Tension is drained through the weakening of my muscles. It was false alarm, thank you. Oh, so very thank you. And inside I am selfishly happy: I can finally be sad. I will be sad now. I will be cured through the privacy of self-pity and tomorrow life will be resumed because that is the promise wrapping (my) self-commiseration.