When you are sad, at least you are feeling. I never thought I would be jealous of a sad person, but you wouldn’t understand. Feelings are transient. They come and we grasp them in our bodies, we hear them pounding in our hearts and banging against our brains, but we know they are temporary. Eventually, they will pass and new ones shall enter in a tapestry of new colors in a changing, shifting pattern. Sadness, in a way, is a passenger on a train simply waiting to leave and give his seat to Elated or Disgruntled.
But feeling nothing, becoming an empty train chugging down the tracks, is endless. It feels as if there is no beginning or ending, merely an infinite loop.
Infinity is said to be beautiful. You can feel infinite and it means that you are boundless and alive, electrical currents of impossibility pulsing against each other. But this is the endlessness of time, where each second takes eight years and that single second puts down those eight years of ache, setting them right upon your shoulders.
You wait for the emptiness to pass, but it is not a train car passenger. It is a resident, settled in. He sits upon your hands, your feet, your head, your chest. You become a captive to yourself, watching as the landscape passes by. Each blade of grass blends into the previous and the merge into a single entity that blurs time in that dreaded continuity. There are horror films about being trapped in a cage, stuck in a basement, but there is never something as dark and insidious as being stuck in yourself, imprisoned and forced to watch you waste your own life.
Added to it all, weights are tied to your fingers and the edges of your lips, and they pull you further and further down into yourself. You sink so far into yourself then that even if you could move, could cry for help in a real voice, the plea would not, could not, connect.
Within yourself, there is only the darkest reflection of yourself as company. They are not good company.