I wish someone would have spoken to me on sadness. How it sometimes fades. How it sometimes stays.
On it’s quietness. It’s subtleness. It’s creeping, unobtrusive nature. The way it can snake around you and envelop you whole.
Instead, I began to believe, perhaps by my own devices or the influence of others, that I had to always be “on.” That the drear I suffered was simply the result of hormonal angst and an underdeveloped teenage prefrontal cortex. I filled the void with the melancholy art of Salvador Dali, and the words of Rocky Votolato and Conor Oberst. And I filled any surface I could–napkins, coffee filters, margins in notebooks–with words that attempted to capture it. That attempted to feel something, anything.
I wish someone might have talked about the way it can come on even if we don’t invite it. How sometimes it lingers indefinitely for those of us who can’t help but feel it. Who can’t turn it off as if we’re switching off a fan. Instead it blows ice cold until we’re chilled to the bone and marrow alike. How joy isn’t always legitimate. How happiness is often put on. Zipped up. Worn out and worn through.
How there will be so much more emotion and depth of life when you have known sadness. Wrapped yourself in it. Become embodied by it. How it is melancholy itself that allows you to see people for who and what they are.
How joy is so much more zealous and flavorful because of the places you’ve traveled within yourself.
How you’ve come to know sadness as a friend you shake hands with. Who inspires, appreciates, refines.