Nameless

Have you ever been to that place? Where your soul is bottom-feeding? Afraid of light, incapable of happiness, even of words. It's soul catatonia. There's no sense in trying to feel because all sensation is blunt. Nothing makes sense.

It strikes in unexpected moments. While you're having dinner. Walking down the street. Even while you're washing your face. You find yourself washing away tears with handful after handful of water. Not knowing where all this grief is coming from, seemingly the result of a dam breaking somewhere. In your mind, in your heart. Somewhere.

But it remains nameless. And without cause – this sadness that's devolving the person whom you knew to be yourself. It nags at you. Something betrays the surface of normality and control. It's a monster – a quiet monster – emerging from the depths, agitating the tranquility. The false tranquility. How do you deal with something without a face, without a source. All you know is that it's after you.

Music and laughter become offensive sounds to hear, you recognize that you have finally stepped into something dark – almost tangibly so. Any joy is a personal offense. It becomes an alien feeling and you don't even remember how it felt like and how long ago it was since you did.

Surely someone can understand. There has to be someone who has been there. Family, friends, co-workers, former schoolmates. Someone. Surely someone knows the right things to say. I'll call them up, I'll talk to them. Try to remember what it's like to have a human connection. You pick up your phone and begin scrolling in the contact list. Next, next, next. They have their own lives. Their own problems to deal with. And you, you have your pride. Besides, you are ill-equipped to explain without sounding crazy. Maybe that's what you are.

How do you pull yourself back into the comforts of reality? And you wonder for a second if that's what you really want. The routine, the acceptance of a monotonous life. Of mediocrity, inanities. Yes. Damn it, yes. Anything but this numbing emptiness. And this undiluted and magnified realization of self-insignificance.

You can't seem to derive pleasure from the things you love. But you try, anyway. And end up staring blankly into a screen, with a clean sheet of page while the blinking cursor stare right back at you. Blink, blink, blink. It is defying you. Daring you to type anything. A line, a word, even just a single keystroke. Anything.

But this is one thing you can't let it you beat in. This is your sanity. Your last hold. It can't take this away from you. No, not today. And by heavens, not ever. So you take a deep breath and write the immediate questions in your mind.

Have you ever been to that place? Where your soul is bottom-feeding?