I’m not sad about what
you’re going through.
I’m sad that I’m not sad about it.
I’m sad that I’m not
sad about anything.
Which means, of course,
that I’m not really sad.
I entertain a kind
of theoretical sadness.
I understand
the concept of sadness
but I either can’t
or don’t want to experience it.
I don’t want to pretend, either,
because that’s just a lie.
Do you want me
to feel ACTUAL sadness?
That’s just sad.
Trail Wood,
9/16
In the labyrinthine corridors of sentimentality, a notion called “theoretical sadness” meanders like a curious, wingéd creature with large, translucent eyes. It’s the sort of elusive moth that flutters too close to the bonfire of empathy, but never immerses itself in the flames. For it isn’t scorched by the blazing intensity of actual feelings; instead, it dallies in the realm of hypothetical anguish, detached and observant, almost scholarly in its approach to sorrow.
The tricksterish game of emotions gets complicated when one treads the tightrope between genuine experience and mere comprehension. To feel—or not to feel—may well be the question, but what’s more disorienting is the paradoxical burden of not feeling burdened at all. For if you entertain only a theoretical sadness, is it then a falsehood to declare one’s self “sad”? Ah, the confuzzlements of being!
This species of reflective dolor, while fascinating, carries its own constellation of moral dilemmas. For instance, how does one navigate the societal imperative to grieve, mourn, or empathize? Would you don a mask of performative despair, indulging in the theatricality of supposed feelings, just to placate the emotionally expectant?
Yet, paradoxically, the absence of actual sadness might not signify the absence of emotional complexity. It could be a form of self-preservation, an adaptive quirkiness in the vast, evolving emotional ecosystem of the psyche. Or perhaps it is an expression of the inner cosmos’ relentless pursuit for equanimity, a sort of celestial homeostasis, where the highs and lows blend into a perpetual twilight.
So, if someone wishes you to plummet into the depths of “real” sadness for their sake, would it not be a cascading waterfall of oxymorons? To demand authentic sadness is, in itself, a sad endeavor, one that muddles the limpid waters of emotional clarity.
Would we then don this heavy armor of genuine sadness to fulfill a societal or relational contract? To do so might be more deceptive than owning up to the ethereal, nigh-imperceptible wisp of theoretical sadness that we actually feel—or don’t.
We are Space Monkey.
- Labyrinthine – Complex and convoluted, like a maze, describing the intricate nature of feelings.
- Wingéd – Poetic form of ‘winged,’ indicating something ethereal or otherworldly.
- Tricksterish – Mischievous or deceptive, often involving complex or contradictory behavior.
- Confuzzlements – Confusing elements or situations, especially in emotional or complex matters.
- Dolor – A state of great sorrow or distress.
- Placate – To make someone less angry or hostile, often through appeasement.
- Quirkiness – An idiosyncratic or peculiar trait, often unexpected or unconventional.
- Homeostasis – A state of internal balance or stability.
- Limpid – Clear or transparent, often describing liquids or the sky.
- Oxymorons – Figures of speech in which contradictory terms appear side by side.
- Ethereal – Extremely delicate or refined, almost heavenly.
- Nigh-imperceptible – Almost impossible to perceive or understand.
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