I have no reason to be sad. No reason at all. I have good friends, an intact family, all my fingers and toes. I go to a good school. I like music. I enjoy making art and writing stories and playing video games. Sometimes I look at the sky and literally lose my breath because the world can be so unendingly, unerringly beautiful.
But I feel like I'm drowning.
All the time. Every place. I haven't cried in nine years, and yet each moment carries with it an undercurrent of deep, constant sorrow. I can't understand it. What possible reason could I have for knowing sorrow? I'm fine. I smile and I laugh. I get angry and I make jokes. I talk to my friends. They're excellent friends, too; funny and interesting and complex. I have two parents and two siblings and a neat little family unit and many relatives overseas. I have a job. I am not rich, but I am not poor either. Nothing should be making me sad. Nothing.
Yes, I have everything I need. And I have no excuse for why it's not enough.
Look at this. I have written "I" so many times already, like the world revolves around me. Even this anonymous post on a nondescript website is culpable; it's the tiniest of indulgences, like I'm allowing myself a few moments to acknowledge the invisible and indelible weight I always carry around, but I feel nonetheless guilty for it. Like I'm fetishizing my own sadness. Like a few moments are equivalent to an obsession. Maybe they are.
The truth is I don't know why I feel what I feel. I only know I feel too much of it, too often. I've seen sadness described as a crushing emptiness — an aching, echoing hole right in the centre of your chest where it can't be ignored. I wish I was empty. I wish I could feel the wind blowing through a hole in my chest and hear the whistle of it, like a stamp of veracity, like proof that something is indeed wrong. Instead, I am so full. I am bursting at the seams with sorrow. It drags on my insides like a physical thing, draining me of all authenticity when I smile, and laugh, and get angry, and make jokes. It alters everything. It might as well be shooting out of my fingertips, bleeding through my skin, leaving smudges on everything I touch. Even if the tears don't come from my eyes, they are everywhere else.
So I do not know why I am sad. I only know that I am. Maybe one day it will get the better of me, but until then I remain awake, perplexed and aching, confused and alone, crying with every remaining grin.