Musings on Sadness

Contemplation is a common habit for me in my loads and loads of free time I seem to encounter in university. Well, perhaps it would be better named as “slight amounts of spare thought periods”. Regardless, I have been thinking. Which is a dangerous pasttime.

The object of my musings? Sadness. I seem to encounter it everywhere I go, and yet its forms and origins are as unique as the person who carries it. There are those who wear their sadness on their sleeves, removing themselves from communion from another because of the immense pain it brings them. Others package it into their music of choice, their books, or their movies, experiencing all their sadness in a controlled circumstance. When their playlist plays, or they curl up to read a favourite book, they encounter for that period an almost overwhelming feeling, but emerge back into the real world able to smile and carry on.

Others still shelve it behind widest smiles and booming laughter, successfully drawing the curtain on their sorrows, with the exception of a ray of sadness which breaks through the mask when they think no-one is looking. You can see it in the way they look at someone else, or in the way they watch the world around them. It is in the way they stand, or the way they dig their nails into their palms. Underneath the surface it lurks, waiting for the opportunity to shine through the equally oppressing facade.

And then there are those people, those wonderful, amazing people, who accept the sadness as part of who they are. It becomes the reason they hold joy in every person they meet and everything that they see. Their sadness is the gateway to their happiness, because they know that to suffer in silence is to stifle the greatness that can come from that sadness, that unthinkable sorrow. Because in sorrow, we can find joy.

At least, that’s what I think at 1 in the morning whilst staring at my ceiling.

End proof.

Originally published at

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