Emotions: A Creative Mess

Ever-fluctuating, deep-set monster in my chest. Her name is Depression and she finds some kind of sadistic happiness when there’s no air left in my lungs, when my heart beats faster than the war drums of African tribes. She finds pleasure in me staring into the distance, the prettiest view of the bluest blues laying in front of my eyes and, while others would be overjoyed, there’s a sort of blank feeling hanging about in the depths of my soul.

You see, I am incapable of understanding my own soul, yet I feel a part of it missing.

My attempt at explaining to you this thing that’s going on somewhere here, in my mind (for those of you that don’t believe in the concept of the ‘soul’) is obviously a not-very-successful-one, but I’m trying. Just like I’m trying to wake up every day thinking “Today I will feel pure joy again. Today’s going to be different.” If I pressure myself a little more, if I damage my monster enough for it to hide for a few seconds, I feel a little happy. Or, I don’t know if it’s happiness I feel. I can’t distinguish feelings anymore. Everything feels a little… stale, a little oversaturated, lost in the midst of this nothingness.

I don’t want to get into detail as to why I feel like this. After all, it’s one of those “why’s” that can’t really change. The things in one’s life that are unalterable should not be talked about, because then, a feeling of longing for the unattainable solution is created. That particular type of longing is pointless. It’s the ultimate creator of internal torture.

And who needs more monsters sabotaging their life?

After ruling out the unattainable solution to protect myself, there’s a feeling of uselessness emerging and a myriad of questions following along: “Why can’t I help myself?”, “I love helping others, giving them solutions to their problems, but why can’t I find a solution to this mind-numbing abyss?”,” Why can’t I pressure myself into being happy?…”

And so on and so forth.

Emotions are a deeply personal and complex thing and I absolutely despise oversimplifying them like this. In reality, everything I’ve just described is the tip of an indescribably monstrous iceberg. Or, maybe, it is describable to an extent, but I don’t really want to get into depths I won’t be able to pull myself out of.

For the moment, life has come full circle. It feels like I’ve been walking into life’s corridors for centuries, entering doors as I walk and, inevitably exiting. I’ve left a couple open, but most of them are firmly shut and will remain that way. Whenever I enter those corridors again, I always plummet into darkness. I used to always look for light in the doors surrounding me, but I’m tired of opening a gleaming door and closing it after a while. It is, frankly,  draining. That’s why I’ve given up. I don’t like a temporary light if I know it’s going to be dark again in a short while. It’s so much effort even opening the door, laying the bare self, unprotected,  vulnerable into a light that, who knows if it’s ever going to go out.

Darkness has a comfortable quality to it and that’s why it is my preferred place to be. I’ll let you say the constantly-repeated “Nothing ever grows in a comfort zone”, since, well, I do. I sit there until I can grow flowers again; until I become the Flower: the crimson rose; until I have the strength to open another door again.

 

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