Meet The Sadness. Meet The Hero.

I almost died once. Honestly. Once, my heart nearly stopped.

As a precursor to today’s post I will say that yes, I’ve been there. And, like I say, it nearly killed me. So I don’t feign to understand, at the very least, the general idea of depression, sadness, and the sort. But I also want to say that I do understand, and am aware of the fact, that some people are in a place where no certain amount of choice is going to do anything.

*      *      *      *      *      *

I was asked the other day why it is that I’m drawn to sad, depressing, often times tragic characters and/or stories. This wasn’t the first. I’ve been asked this question, or questions akin to it, many times.

On one such occasion, my mother, whose emotional tipping point is tested watching Doris Day movies, asked if I was ever going to write a fantasy or adventure story- a “happy story” like Swiss Family Robinson or something of its ilk. Smirking, I told her I would. Some day mother. Some day. But not before she wept, blowing snot bubbles into her pajama sleeve, making a mental note to grab a business card next time she left the therapist’s office. Okay, maybe she didn’t weep or blow snot bubbles. At least I didn’t witness it. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised.

Another time it came up, it didn’t really appear to be a question at all. It was something along the lines of, you’re sick, you need help, wallow in solidarity, goodbye. Although that was before I learned to open up again, and following a rather dark (aforementioned) period in my life. Anyhow, the person in question is no longer in contact with me. I suppose it was something I said, or created. You think?

So why is it? Why is it that I’m drawn to these types of characters, these types of dark, depressing stories? (See my novella A Mindful Rendition for a particularly tragic rendering).

My answer would have to be a simple- or perhaps not so simple- one: it’s part of my nature and temperament.

I’m not entirely certain why that is. Nor can I really explain it. Not, at least, in any way amounting to a clear reason. But I’ll give it a go nonetheless.

At the base level, I think I’m drawn to sadness and depression and melancholy and struggle because I like to sense, or feel. That is, I enjoy the heightened sense of it all- the stark image, the dire implication, the willful and individualistic fervor, exemplified in the volitional and hopeful expression of rising up through the muck. It’s at this juncture I sit back and wonder.

Why, because it can go either way. He can kill himself. He can not. She can allow it to consume her. She can not. It’s hopeful. It’s sad. It’s overwhelming. It’s joyous. And at the end of it, there’s a choice, and an uncompromising and limitless amount of possibility.

It is, in my eyes, a place where heroes can be created.

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