what is it to know sadness? i imagine a school with filled classrooms. scores of desperate, invalidated workers taking the exam that grants them the title of “depressed”. but that melancholy emotion is not confined to the borders of mental illness, so, naturally, there’s a multi-diverse claim to the throne. to say simply, we can probably relate on some specific level. you and me, dictating a shakespearean tragedy.
battling the weak is strangely more demanding than brawling with the strong. although we discriminate its pitiful association into an unwanted child, this youth is as challenging as a full-grown foe. it undercuts your satisfaction when it finds it. steals dreams. grips to your back with unshakeable weight as you hunch through the day, shoulders tense from the anxiety-arising possibility of a derailed night.
ironically, to step back and observe the sadness, in an attempt to disassociate, is in itself a somber act, is it not? i imagine an observational experiment on the downs to be heart-wrenchingly emptying. writing notes from the suffering of others. well, maybe that isn’t so bombastic.
however, alone and frown-faced are two distinctly different experiences. to live through a solitary stretch of sand is to appreciate the unavoidable camaraderie present among human beings. to be sad is not to appreciate joy, for it undermines that party in favor of its own like a jealous cat. happy is now savored, but as a vacation, or a weekend trip, transforming it into a pause in the motion of life. the essentialistic state of rest traded for tragedy.
as surprising but expected, dipping into the valley does not send a carrier pigeon for vibrancies. when we are a crumbling partial print of our granite existence, the one wish is to right the balance. not to release troops of oxytocin, or dopamine, but simply to release nothing, and exist in the void below consciousness.
it truly is, in an admiring fashion, the cruelest villain. it’s like a parasitic virus, understanding the symbiotic relationship between its host and itself as a means to total domination. one might assess the blues as a tough, but refreshing bubble. to me, it’s the plastic bag around my face.
but fixations and novelty are subjective. i obviously worship problems, as they egregiously yet approvingly define much of an already-malleable identity. our demons are only as evil as our imagination.
to tell the honest reaction, i look forward to my greetings with isolation and muted arrangements. to live two lives is impossible; nevertheless, i’ve achieved it. one is a battle for survival, while the other is, what, an excruciatingly bland biography of middle-class advantage? it’s rewarding to be the soldier again, kidnapped and kept prisoner in a concrete compound below the earth’s crust. let the carnal compulsion of freedom light the whole place ablaze.
they say when your dreams become your reality — never mind. i say, when your dreams become your reality, you’ve got a dark-twisted mind. don’t worry though, it’s highly encouraged.
– D K T