Lost Child

Sometimes I think that it’s not even that I enjoy writing. It’s as if I’m compelled to do it, just like a painter paints simply because they can’t resist not to. I wanted to get it all down on paper. Everything. I wanted to know every thought that ran through her brain at a million miles per minute and what she looked like when she first awoke. She was brilliant, I knew that much. There’s always more to people though. I wanted to know the inner stuff, like why she didn’t like big crowds or why she was scared of love. I wanted to know what she thought about each season and the flowers blooming and dying and leaves falling. I had to get it all down on paper. I was compelled to.

         I kept scratching at my face. There were bugs crawling all over me, everywhere. I couldn’t stop itching. Bugs are like my mind, eating me away.

I’m not supposed to write about this. I’m supposed to write about the good stuff too. I don’t think I know how to do that. It’s because when I write my inner deepest and darkest thoughts are finally justified by black ink. I can’t substitute that sort of satisfaction with writing about the flowers blooming.  I just can’t.

 

Sadness is everywhere. Sadness is crying, and smiling, and laughing and loving and life.  Depression is sadness. In a way, I still can’t believe that I am diagnosed with this mental illness. Like I am mentally ill, I was in a hospital for it and everything. That sounds outrageous in a way and I guess a year ago I could never see myself being in a hospital. or meeting a girl I love in a hospital. Sadness is loneliness, it’s longing. It’s missing someone you love, wondering if they are okay. Sadness is Beginners. I am sadness.  I don’t mean to romanticize sadness but I mean I don’t know what else to do sometimes. If sadness is always there, might as well make the most of it. Might as well write sad stories and poems and journal entries. Might as well draw sad faces and paint sad pictures. Might as well inform others that they are taking their happy lives for granted.  I guess I am sadness because I give up on myself. The only reason I keep going is to make others happy, but it seems, usually, that it doesn’t. Sadness is thinking, “What’s the point?” Sadness is never seeing an end. It’s pain.  It’s suffering. It’s love. Not always, but sometimes. Maybe some people are just sad and there is nothing anyone can do about it. Maybe it’s just the way they are. And maybe that’s okay. In a strange way I am content with my sadness. I have learned so much about this world through it. I have learned about how not to be, just how terrible some people have life, and that I don’t have to live for others. It all seems hypocritical, doesn’t it? Well, that’s because it is. Completely.  They say, “live for yourself”, but soon as you’re suicidal its time to guilt trip you. I’m not saying I’m suicidal again, I’m just sad. It’s lingering sadness. And honestly, I don’t think it’ll ever go away. Maybe that’s okay too. Sadness has provided me with insight that happiness could never offer.  Sadness can make beautiful things, but so can happiness. I often think I could never write if it weren’t for sadness.  I am not well, and even when I say I am I’m probably not.