There are bananas ripening in my mortar. They’ll stay there until they’re blackening and the thought of making a banana bread will cross my mind. No banana bread will be made. Buying fruit is one of the last optimistic things I actually do. From the checkout, to the kitchen, all the way into the bin, I actually believe on some level that I might eat it. It’s the ultimate metaphor. All that fruity promise, simple and beautiful, nourishing and satisfying, slowly turning the dial on the optimism/pessimism continuum all the way down to rancid. And I don’t intervene.
I think there is something to be said for sad bananas, sad luck and sad writing. Especially during these salad days of phone-filters, photo-shopping and puffed-up self-promotion. I think there is something to be said for being sad. Just fucking sad. Without kicking ourselves for it and without being kicked by others. Unfortunately, sad is often suspect to those who come in contact with it – something to be pitied, tolerated and moved away from as quickly as possible in case its inconvenience rubs off. Scientific studies have revealed that even rodents get sad, both domestically and in the wild, which suggests sadness may be a natural state of being independent of a sense of self. And given that most of our interactions with other mammals prove only that we bear little to no resemblance to the person we imagine we are, who are we to trust our sense of self anyway?
Sad is the scarlet letter in the age of selfies. In the age of liars. I receive emails from readers who admit they have become adept at window-dressing their Facebook pages to keep parents and friends unaware of their cutting, hair-pulling, drugging and risky sex lives. In this age of instant communication, we have fewer meaningful communions than ever. We have fucked ourselves so royally with this results-oriented culture that nobody learns how to be sad or how to be around sad people. We are being over-run by a social media that specialises, specialises, in indoctrinating all of us with the belief that appearance is everything. That the veneer is the only thing that matters.
Those of us who are sad deserve a better word for it. Sad implies being bound by something as insubstantial as a mood. Depressed suggests a transitory affliction that supports the sports car fetish of pharmaceutical company CEOs. Clinically depressed implies a stopover on the way to Top-Yourself-Town. God forbid we allow ourselves to be broken-hearted or melancholic. There’s way too much humanity in words like that.
“I am my heart’s undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.”
― Emilie Autumn, The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls