the mask of melancholia

Two days after having my emotional high, I am waging war against depression. A lot of people do not know it, but I have Manic-Depressive Disorder. I only drown it out by the hustle and bustle of my life. Or the life I once had.

The utter lack of intellectual, emotional and social stimuli is taking its toll on my being. I am not cut for Monasticism. I need to be around with people. I feed on stress. I need to be challenged. My sense of purpose is being dissolved like sea foam, wave after wave after wave.

Don’t get me wrong, I love solitude. In solitude I find peace of mind in the crazy world I live in. Through solitude I can exercise my social skills with clarity of vision and create certain flaws to make my reality natural.

I feel like I have been sentenced to incommunicado. The adverse effect of which is emotional claustrophobia.

Sometimes it is difficult to fit in with persons whom you share a lot in common, because the differences are larger and far more defining. Though you may be gathered together constantly, you feel utterly alone.

I am not in my element. Waiting for the bar is an ethereal out-of-body experience, some sort of parallel dimension. You know the other world exists, but you can’t be in it, you can’t touch, until the time comes, you become part of that world once more. Either way, pass or fail, you go back to the world of Law, and all the people who goes with it. I am TOTALLY INTANGIBLE right now.

And I realized that persons whom you have constant contact with, whom you utterly care for, and vis-à-vis, care for you, are devoid of any semblance of emotion. Whilst those whom were already distant and share nothing in common with, except excerpts of intertwined histories of life and love, have more to give in the brief periods of time that you are enjoined.

I dare say they are psychologically incapacitated. So am I.

No one’s life is perfect. Some are more flawed than others, while some are better to a certain degree of reasonableness.

What used to relax me became burden. What was once burden, now to me is refuge.

I miss my world. And my world misses me.

I’ve realized that ANY employment is not the answer. There must always be the PASSION for what you do in order for you to have satisfaction in whatever you endeavor. I need the tribulation and the intricacies. I need to fear.

Once I thought I was emotionally dead. Perhaps I am not, my heart still beats for love and life. And perhaps this depression is a part of it. It makes me feel alive.
Perhaps I need to simulate death… an expensive bungee jump or readily available tablets of valium and beer.

If I die, what if…

Who would cry?

Who would go to my funeral?

Who would voluntary carry my casket?

Who would laugh?

Who among them will give in to a long overdue procrastinated profession of what should have been done and said while I was in an animated state?

I am not normal. I’ve known that for many years. There are others like me out there too. We should meet and celebrate in a Gothic bacchanalia of somber and sordid dreams.

There are so many masks that the soul chooses to wear, and my soul particularly chose melancholia this time.

I wish I were a mask… so that any soul who wears me will see the world through my eyes.