From the darkest corners of my soul comes an admittance nearly beyond my ability to craft sentences in which a confession would be believable. An "optimist pretender" has come to terms with the possibility that he doesn’t have to wear the mask any longer. There appears to be a unique darkness found in the first realization of one’s own nihilistic tendencies. Such a night has unfortunately, yet inevitably arrived. Depression is the most powerful writing prompt in existence. The literary abilities found in such states of mind reach far above any ill-attempted happiness unsuccessfully seeking a rivalry.
Sadness is truly the most beautiful, yet complex emotion. It only exists as the lack of joy, which is regrettably unachievable in it’s entirety. Joy is ultimately sought, but is marred by the one thing able to prevent its existence. Such an idea presupposes sadness’ triumph in dominance over any lasting joy.
Liquor generally places a haze over my thoughts, clouding the senses, and making writing very difficult. This night, the mind has an odd clarity, and a seemingly prophetic vision over life, as if such silliness were possible. I might only compare it with tunnel vision, yet the sort that pierces its gaze onto every avenue and lane of life simultaneously. If I may bring further controversy to this essay, I will claim that the absence and longing of love is an exceptionally superior emotion to love itself. Conversely, those finding acceptance in love with another are unable to presently understand the lack of it, but have experienced it at one point in the past.
Where does inadequacy come from and why will it always last? It reigns on the throne, and lies in the heart of loneliness’ existence. Inadequacy opposes love’s existence in the lives of those who don’t measure up, ultimately preventing joy from blooming. Thoughtfulness is a crime to those who don’t appreciate it. Sad emotions swiftly change to a cold and dark anger when the root of inadequacy cannot be discovered or changed despite deep soul searching.
The seed of depression was planted recently, and slowly watered by a kind and gentle gardener. She desired the best for the seed, not knowing what it would grow to become. It has reached full bloom, and with the assistance of an anticipated night, is more vibrant than ever.
For the first time in my life, over the past hour I’ve pondered how I should exist outside the confines of love. Not the sort of longing and desperate, yet unsuccessful love, but the sort you find in another person who values you more than anyone. I’m scared that I don’t know how I should live outside of finding love in another. I know I'll remain living because life will be a continual search, never really knowing if I'll find what I'm looking for. If anything, I can remove the optimist's mask to show more truly what's inside.