Journal

Whoop-te-do!

The creature called ‘depression’ always manages to sneak in, even if you have an entire squad of brain cells actively guarding and spreading cheer. It’s like a law of nature. It’s something inevitable. Unless your mind is locked up in some impenetrable dungeon of ignorance.

When you look around, you’ll find things – brilliant things – created by individuals possessing the same organs as yourself. Now, you have a choice. You can take them as achievements of the immensely awesome species that you are a proud to be a part of. Or you can take them as a personal sign of unworthiness of the resources that have been given to you biologically. Upon choosing, you’ll be conveniently labeled as an optimist or a pessimist.

So, here am I, writing about depression, failing to create as much impact on the reader as I’d like to. And here is P.G. Wodehouse:

The sun had gone in for the time being, and the east wind was frolicking round him like a playful puppy, patting him with a cold paw, nuzzling his ankles, bounding away and bounding back again, and behaving generally as east winds do when they discover a victim who has come out without his spring overcoat. It was plain to George now that the sun and the wind were a couple of confidence tricksters working together as a team. The sun had disarmed him with specious promises and an air of cheery goodfellowship, and had delivered him into the hands of the wind, which was now going through him with the swift thoroughness of the professional hold-up artist.

(from: A Damsel in Distress)

I went all whoop-te-do after reading that. So I ask, what choice do I have but feel a bit of self-pity? I can embrace spite and smirk at the thought of the eternal doom awaiting all of us sooner or later. But that would be most ungrateful. So yeah, self-pity.

After all, there are 7 billion people on earth, and only few million find their salt. I can’t complain; statistically speaking.

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