Sadness and melancholy:
What are these feelings really?
I personally don’t quite know. Are they essential? Are they inherent? Are they the child of a situation that you are placed in? Are they the outcome of a certain incident?
Or are they just present?
Do these feelings exist because of reasons unknown to man?
I am sad.
You may ask me, why?
If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn’t be writing this.
I just am.
As sadness exists, so does my feeling it.
None of this makes sense to you, I know.
But what if it didn’t have to?
What if there needn’t be structure to anything?
What if the reason to sadness is this structure to which one has to adhere to?
What if the reason to experiencing sadness is the inability to meet expectations? Not of other’s, but of yourself?
Not set for yourself, but set for others?
What happens when man is betrayed?
Should he have expected it?
What if man betrays?
Did the person on the receiving end deserve it?
I digress.
Sadness: a useless emotion.
Sadness: the purest emotion after rage.
Sadness: the only emotion to counter ecstasy
How does sadness help you?
I have no clue.
I know how it’s helping me though: I am motivated to write something, no matter how shitty.
I stare at a screen almost 20 hours a day. Be it my computer, my phone, the television or the brilliant plays that unfold before everyone’s eyes, where you are forced to take part.
You needn’t have chosen it, but you just are. You play the part which is forced upon you.
You may hate the play, but, ultimately, it is you who is the director.
It is you, who is the actor.
It is you, who is the side character.
It is you, who is the interpreter.
It is you, who is in complete control.
It is you, who is in utter chaos.
But the real problem arises, when the first three words from me are followed up with the fourth one from you.
It is you.
Who?
Who are you?
Who is you?
Who am I?
When your answer to this cannot go past ‘My name is Adithya Dananjay’, you need to start pondering your existence.
Sure: I’m good at something- well, I’m pretty go- I AM better than mos-
When you start to become unsure of yourself.
When you find it so hard to list out something you know you are amazing at, something you know no one can beat you at, something at which you are next only to you in the next few minutes, you know something’s not right.
It IS possible to live with the feeling of never being the best at something; never being unique.
But what kind of life is that? One where you are treated like dirt? One where you are the background character in the play, never offered the position of Romeo OR Juliet? One where Shakespeare would brush you off as fodder for the scene?
Let me ask you: Would you really be okay with leading such a life?
Never getting to be at the center stage, always taken to the edge. Always left hanging. Listening to Moonlight Sonata, writing a super edgy millennial ‘oh I’m so depressed give me attention’ arti- paragraph?
I certainly wouldn’t. I don’t believe you would either.
But the truth is
We’re all the side character in every other person’s story. We’re the supporting cast in someone’s romance, someone’s thriller, someone else’s story.
But doesn’t that make all of us the main characters of our own story?
Sure it does.
But the difference is:
You are the main character of a story that no one will glance towards a second time.
Do you feel sad for me? Or do you find your life condensed down in one line?
Either way: If I’ve not murdered your puppies or done something equally fucking evil, you probably feel sad, or at least not ecstatic.
So why did I want to make you sad?
To bring you to the point I started to make in the beginning.
Is this feeling essential? Would you be more satisfied if you hadn’t felt sad?
I don’t know how I feel right now. I don’t know if I feel anything at all. After all, you aren’t real. Yes, that’s right. Everyone I imagined would be reading this. You’re all in my mind reading this, but you never will.
I never planned on actually sending this out to you.
I’ve wanted many people to feel sad in the time I’ve been alive in this world, but when feeling the way you might if you read this, I’ve decided that I don’t want you to feel this way.
This might not be sadness, but it sure as hell isn’t something I’d like anyone to feel.
So what could this be, then? Loneliness? Jealousy? What if it’s nothing?
What if, this is: to feel ‘numb’?
After four pages in word, I give up. I can’t chase after the meaning for this anymore. I’ve accepted that it’s just a new feeling: When I don’t want to watch another episode of that show, when I couldn’t give less of a shit about a person whom I would have called a best friend, when I could live without seeing the face of everyone I care about, when I could just stare at the screen all day long, without a change in expression, when I don’t have to look at the keyboard or the screen to type any longer, when I just let my fingers do the rest.
I hate feeling this way.
There is no reason.
There is nothing to help me get out of this but time.
There is no permanent fix.
I will feel this way once again, at the slightest remark, at the slightest look, at the slightest expression of discontentment, and at the slightest criticism.
I do see many reasons to live on, though. To get through this period to get to enjoy watching the next episode, to look at the faces of the people I love, to help out someone who needs a favor.
So I know I will let this go eventually, but like I said: I will feel this way once again.
But the real test is to see how I handle myself in the moments I do not feel this way. How I live my life to the fullest when I have motivation to get up from this chair and go outside this house.
But what happens when I find the triggers outside? What happens if I step outside my comfort zone? I’ve been shut inside a room for the past month and a half. I’ve been feeling this way for the past year.
Solidarity has changed nothing, and I know that being a face in the crowd changes nothing either, and neither does trying to be a part of a smaller group.
Rejection and hate are only natural in this life. Shakespeare will reject me every time I ask him for a major part in the play till he deems me worthy. So I will strive towards achieving this ideal.
So to my fellow people who feel like shit for no reason: go listen to Filthy frank’s music or to Mozart. Both have equal outcomes. Both have made want to write, made me want to feel like this, and made me shake my head in slow motion as I immerse myself in the soft and hard keys of Mozart and the ear shattering pink season album (probably for very different reasons).
Or if neither helps you, suck it up and wait for it to pass (Whatever the fuck ‘it’ is) and stare at the whites of your screens till it does. Because when it does, and it will, you finally have a chance to change the things that made you feel this way. Get through all the tears which may engulf you for reasons that may not exist, and get through, which is what I’m hoping to do.
P.S: lemme know if you feel this way too, let’s feel like shit together.
P.P.S: I’m fine, nothing to worry about.
P.P.P.S: Ignore the random change in writing style and other shit mistakes. I was never paying attention.
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