Y We’re Not More Sorrowful Than Those Before Us

It’s been said and over repeated that the millennials (especially yuppies) are a less blithe generation than the generation before. That we’re that way because we’re told we’re special from a very young age. That we think we’re separated from the rest, that we’re not made from the same mold, that we’re unique and what lies within us is beyond the comprehension of others. Might be so, although you’d say this would have rather thrown us in the welcoming arms of faux-pedantry.

Saying happiness is endorsed at each step, each corner we look at, each thing we want to achieve, is improper. Actually, saying *happiness* is trending is improper (though, ironically, we overuse it as a prime life goal, in every little molecule within our surroundings).

We’re actually unhappy not because of the pattern we were raised by, but by our own choice. We choose to desperately put a name on our emotions and generally call the concoction ‘depression’, without knowing what it actually means. We ourselves build shelters and comfortably sit in them all alone, while silently crying that we want to be reached out to. Those movies, those God damn awfully vague, yet loud movies we’ve been watching, the movies we wanted to see over and over again, because we understood them better than anyone — they’re the ones we’re planting the seed through; the seed we carefully water every single day until the anxious tree of sadness shadows us with its crown. We choose to ask ourselves questions. Millions. Billions. Living in oblivion is not an option. It’s the masochists in us that build a tangled living with never ending threads of what, whys, these and thats, yous and mes and all the right and wrong shackles in between.

We want to slip into all of that. We love being the strong victims, the gregarious loners, the helpless sadistic creators of our own twisted tale. It makes us smart. Makes us strongly think that we’ve got the essence of life covered, but that we’re much too complicated, too complex to understand ourselves. We’re not sad, but selfish, thinking that the world is such a small crumb and we’re conducting the higher power; that we’re the ones giving the energy instead of taking; that we’re entitled to be tired and miserable, because we take upon ourselves the Universe’s responsibility and play the martyr role. Although nobody asked us to.

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