On occasion, my state of mind is regarded- commented upon- by persons that I know, and too my choices of literature and music find their way into the analysis of someone who is neither a doctor nor a psychologist, but merely somebody that I have known. I am told at these times that what I choose to read, watch, listen to â€˜probably doesnâ€™t helpâ€™ to lift my spirits or prevent me from contemplating what purpose I am serving by merely existing, or as to whether ending my life would grant me any more respite than the closeness of the dark does at the end of the day.
But I find it difficult to agree with these people, and harder even to convince them that they are, although not â€˜wrongâ€™, not-right in their perspective. Because how can they be â€˜wrongâ€™ when it is the mass of society that determines this perspective? Mass truth at some point becomes reality; everything in human life is constructed. Henceforth I believe that it is not what you read or listen to that forms your method of thought-process; rather it is the way that you think which leads you to choose forms of literature and music.
My choices reflect my own thoughts- they provide justification for my mood, my â€˜melancholyâ€™- or â€˜depressionâ€™ as is the term used by the mass today. I cannot choose beyond what I feel because other emotions expressed in literature or music do not speak to me; I should never choose Mr. Men over The Tell-Tale Heart, for instance because my own heart struggles with the concept of unfaltering happiness, and rather finds comfort and understanding in the stories of otherâ€™s melancholia and self-loathing.
I do often think of the sheer comprehension of Truth that would cause one to crumble under the weight of their own thoughts. It is more difficult today to realise this truth because we are constantly told by the media that everything is absolutely fine… provided we buy their goods. But as a consequence of this constructed â€˜perfectionâ€™, to go â€˜madâ€™ as a result of comprehending the pointlessness of life, we would hardly be considered genius, but rather simply that… mad. But life itself is pointless, and the general ignorance of such magnitude that it is not, has stopped the large majority of people from even contemplating death; thus those of us who regard it within literature and music for example, are often seen in a derogatory way. Nietzsche believed that Truth did not equal Happiness, because legislated happiness for the majority is a constructed and fabricated happiness that is largely based on mass wants. He found that there was no correlation between Happiness and Truth- instead, Suffering equalled Truth and this is how I believe I exist. My thoughts to do with death create â€˜sufferingâ€™ inside my head, because no-one else that I know is able to understand them. And in most cases this very thought process is even considered beyond just thoughts to be a type of illness- â€˜depressionâ€™.
I often wonder if it would be better to alter my state of mind through drugs. I have been on various anti-depressants over the last few years (Citalopram, Sertraline, Clomipramine, Fluoxetine, Diazepam, Quetiapine) and while some have worked for a short period of time, mostly the side-effects have been too strong for me to continue taking them. I am currently not taking any drugs. But this makes me question whether the way that I think is indeed an illness, or whether it is just a thought-process still. I vary on my opinion towards this daily; most days I want rid of the way that I think about things, I dearly wish to be happy but have no sense of how to be so. Today I think that were it not for those who took their time to contemplate life and death as opposed to living each day as they are told to do so, my own understanding of my own thoughts would be much more chaotic. Indeed, though I know no-one in person who currently perceives life as I do, many have done, and this is why I choose to read them rather than whatever book is deemed â€˜the bestâ€™ in any given week. But it still saddens me that I seem to be alone with my thoughts, and those who I have told have treated it as though it is infact an illness. Thus, I believe that none would understand me taking my own life, and given a matter of days, none would perhaps care either.
And so, what is the point in thinking about this every day? What good does it do anybody to feel so down? For myself, it is not an option. It is merely the way that I think. Sometimes, as I have said, I wish that I could change this. But then I also wonder that if I did not have this; what would remain? I almost fear that I am nothing without my difference.
Sorry if any of this has come across as arrogant.