What is sadness?

A strange and crude emotion, seemingly created for as sense of loss, be it spiritual or material. What purpose does it serve except for pain? Torture of the soul upon whom it is inflicted. Odd. I should be happy, excited. Yet, ironically, the happiness is seemingly eaten by the opportunism of sadness. The possibility to relax, to hope, to express…it has unleashed an anguish I didn’t really know was there. I knew…of course I knew…just not the depth and extent of it, the all consuming black hole left by the loss of my old life. A life with endless hopes, dreams and eventualities.

Tragic. Tragic in it’s patheticness, its unimportance in the face of the bigger, unforgiving context of the totality of human suffering. Yet here I am, trapped by it — vulnerable and exposed, pathetic and undeserving of recognition or pity. A personal, inner journey that no one else cares about enough to learn or give credence. Why should they? They have their own burden to carry. Their own torture to endure, their own hope to keep alive — or keep doused. Hope is painful. Hope shines a light on the unjust reality, it requires nurture and attention to keep it lit. I have been nurturing a keep within my soul — building walls to prevent its extinction. Switching off parts of my consciousness that reminded me of the pain and struggle I was enduring.

Emotion is a cruel master. A phenomena I, after 22 years, I am only just coming to face up against. I am losing. It feels like I am losing. It is an unspeakable, inexplicable and powerful force that has complete and utter control — if it decides it. For a long time I have suppressed these feelings, I am an expert at ignoring them — channelling them into a persona of rationality and problem solving. Damage control. Mitigating the costs of such unspeakable crimes that this unknown part of me will inflict upon those around me, those who don’t care. In turn making me someone who didn’t care, for myself or for others. A shell, a defence mechanism that failed to protect against damage and inflicted a rot upon my inner self. Yet, here I am. Rotting unless given a brief glimpse of my old life. Must I chase my old life, or attempt to fight the rot and forge new hope in the sea of hopelessness? That is the question.

Hope is the operative function of human happiness, then? What hope do I see, have I ever seen in Lancashire? How is hope given? I have assumed hope was received from the outside, although there must, necessarily be an element of self creation too, of borrowing hope from other sources and applying it to new places — inspiring hope. Transferring it. A market for hope. HA!

Such concepts as hope seem to feature so much in old stories I’ve never read. Yet they are so absent in modern culture and society — at least the one I live in. Perhaps this word will die away, disappearing from under-use? Replaced with loans and credit, the brief glimpse of hope will be marred once the reality re-paying for it sets in.