Call it Sadness

What follows next is sadness. Please go away if you are in dire need of positivity or if you like to entertain anything but reality.

If you are looking for your daily dose of prose/poetry with quintessential usage of metaphor,this is where you stop. Abort. What follows next is an allegory. The mere catalogue of unabridged facts is exactly what will follow.

I am sad. I am anxious and I am sad. Not sad as in self-demeaning,self loathing sort of sad. Sad as in jealously sad. As in ‘hopeless envious’ sad. The anti-sadist sad sad.

My feed is full of people celebrating this thing called life; posting happy snaps,posting their beautiful smiling faces. To me,it is satisfying to see and that’s sad because I could never really relate to them. Could never imagine same thing happening to me,like me smiling and moulding as per the peers and that’s sad. My offerings include humour, lyrics and music score. And that’s sad because art and humour is derived from reality.

I see people celebrating love. People irrevocably in love;spreading love vibes. I am sad because I don’t catch their vibes. I am sad at the fact that my ability to feel and acknowledge love in accordance with the popular norm has diminished completely.

Sadly,I don’t even want to be wanted. Call it nihilism.Call it sadness.

The poets of my era are warriors. They fight,they write,they fight again. Consider a vast desert with no seeming end.They are the travellers hoping for the plains and an oasis is their temporary refuge. The poets of my era don’t write,they bleed. They paint their scars with brushes which work via pressure mechanism fueled by nothing but courage.

I read them and that makes me sad. It makes me sad because I hear a call for help amidst all hopelessness. Sadly,they are being congratulated for decorating their misery. Makes me sad that I can’t see what other fellow poets see when they find depth.All I could see or hear was a person sending out a call. The picture they are drawing isn’t beautiful,it is tragic. I feel sad as I am no more a rebel or maybe I was never a poet to begin with.Call me basic. Call this sadness.

I go out and I see people worshipping their human form,looking all flee. Sadly, I am sitting in these chappals while I wait for the metro to arrive at Malviya Nagar.They say meet new people daily,it helps in evolving as a mature human who has absorbed wide range of perceptions. Doesn’t help if you are not willing to look presentable or more importantly ‘talk’ presentable. I am sad because I never really mastered the art of talking the talk. It’s like I am the open book with detailed and honest explanation and the person who leaves is the top notch book reviewer. Some parted ways with negative reviews and some dozed off;leaving the pages unread..unturned.

End realisation: some people shouldn’t even try commuting and you my friend are one of those. Sadly,it came more natural to me than I expected. Look who’s the ultimate pro at deleting his social existence now?

Maybe I am just sad because I can see sadness lurking inside everyone who have forcefully supressed it under their armour of pretentious confidence.How is ignorance curing sadness is beyond me. When did sadness became a thing to boycott as to induce positivity? Isn’t it amusing how they feel sad over a fictional character death in a TV series while they refuse to acknowledge the grave situation other people(live people turning into corpses) are in?

Talk about this courageous Netflix generation!

I am sad at the fact that I might become this nihilist prick who knows nothing but apathy. I fear the process has found its catalyst in the worthlessness in me. The questions have dried up,the thoughts have evaporated and then there is this comforting calm that holds me and eradicates every ounce of zeal while I stay motionless,emotionless.

Yeah,let me just ignore human existence. Worth it.

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10 thoughts on “Call it Sadness”

      1. Charles Baudelaire; “Spleen”

        When the low, heavy sky weighs like the giant lid
        Of a great pot upon the spirit crushed by care,
        And from the whole horizon encircling us is shed
        A day blacker than night, and thicker with despair;

        When Earth becomes a dungeon, where the timid bat
        Called Confidence, against the damp and slippery walls
        Goes beating his blind wings, goes feebly bumping at
        The rotted, moldy ceiling, and the plaster falls;

        When, dark and dropping straight, the long lines of the rain
        Like prison-bars outside the window cage us in;
        And silently, about the caught and helpless brain,
        We feel the spider walk, and test the web, and spin;

        Then all the bells at once ring out in furious clang,
        Bombarding heaven with howling, horrible to hear,
        Like lost and wandering souls, that whine in shrill harangue
        Their obstinate complaints to an unlistening ear.

        — And a long line of hearses, with neither dirge nor drums,
        Begins to cross my soul. Weeping, with steps that lag,
        Hope walks in chains; and Anguish, after long wars, becomes
        Tyrant at last, and plants on me his inky flag.

        from “Flowers of Evil”

        Liked by 2 people

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