Sadness? Over-rated.

I don’t really subscribe to the theory that sadness is tender. I don’t understand how it works. There’s nothing poetic about it. There’s nothing nice about it. Sadness just helps to paint a portent picture of melancholia, available at your friendly neighbourhood Shoppe d’Feelings for, let’s say, a nickel.

Thanks to a steady stream of blue-ribbon deviantART accounts, tween dramas, Thai music videos [look them up], radio weepers and a misinterpretation of the colour burgundy, we’ve been put on a collision course with the idea that sadness equates to beauty. That’s also if you include any filter-toting smartphone photograph you’ve taken of an inanimate object, in an attempt to highlight sadness by stating that the otherwise dead thing is more alive than you are [guilty!].

We indulge ourselves in all these extremities because we’re terribly [and mayhaps comfortably] numb most of the time. So much so that we can freely admit that the most genuine thing that we’ve felt in our lives was not happiness, but sorrow [guilty!], just like the endless bald tate of Billy Corgan’s head.

I don’t reckon this to be true. I think sadness, although limitless, should not be indulged in for too long, even if it is to relive certain tender memories that you couldn’t extract from the neighbourhood Brain Trust for a dime. Pensiveness does NOT equate to feeling sad and morose and drowning yourself in Vitamin Water. Nostalgia does NOT mean you have to will yourself to go back in time to relive and repeat that one defining moment in life when taking a left turn would have given you hard candy instead of sour plums.

Sadness is not fashionable. Sadness is not trendy. Sadness is not an Afghan coat that is supposed to keep you warm [guilty!]. Sadness is not a dog to fit in your clutch. Sadness is not cool. Sadness is hardly the encyclopedia-like database of fine wines and cheeses that you have in your head.

Sadness is sad. SAD. SAD!

I repeat: SAD. It’s like Crash And The Boys said: so sad, so, so sad [look them up].

You know that pain of yours that you claim the whole world ignores? It’s actually there. It’s the collective groan of a lot of tired ears.

If you have a problem, and you have to let it out, then let it out. Do not wallow into some contemptuous solo period of lamenting that no one can understand. You have friends, and ready, willing, loving, ears at the fore. Use them. People are concerned for you, and deciding to declare yourself an anthropomorphic raccoon [you guessed it…guilty!] will NOT lighten your heart’s burden.

(A burden is to be shared, because the people whose healing hands lay upon you may also need your healing hands one day to be laid upon them.)

And if you need to wallow, be constructive about it. Write a song, or some prose. Bake a cake. Don’t be another McGuffin. Because once you realise how much of a red herring everything is, you’re not in any shape to do anything but laugh.

Jon Bon Jovi said that no man is an island.

Don’t be.

An island, I mean. You can be Jon Bon Jovi, he’s quite a cool guy.

Any hole that you dig for yourself can either be a grave, or it can lead you to the center of YOUR world. Your choice. These are things that you can’t get from your neighbourhood Hut O’ Self-Esteem for a buck – you can get them for free from within.

I’m not denying that you will get upset, and hurt. I’m only saying that there comes a time when even you must rise up, brush aside the rubble and force yourself to stand amongst giants.

So what does the cat say?Your move, Bogart.

Don’t be such a twat.

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