I started writing this article exactly two months ago. December. Today I’m resuming it. I erased the paragraph I had written earlier.
You might be wondering why I’m mentioning all these minor, probably irrelevant details. The truth is, I don’t want my brain to go into shut mode suddenly. Because it does that. It has done that before. The moment it realizes I’m about to write what’s actually going on inside, it quietly shuts the door.The thoughts don’t disappear. They simply become inaccessible. I know the exact location of them. I know the type of thoughts. I even know the words I would use to express them. And yet, writing a single sentence becomes disproportionately difficult.
So I’m trying to trick it. I’m maintaining flow. Not putting pressure. Not demanding clarity. Just typing. Hehe.
I think it resists because once I write something, it feels exposed. And when I call it “sadness of unknown origin,” the brain feels like it has failed. As if it’s supposed to identify the cause and present a neat explanation. That’s its job, isn’t it?
But this sadness doesn’t cooperate. It’s not typical. The symptoms aren’t dramatic. You don’t sit and cry. You don’t get angry. It doesn’t interrupt your functionality. You work. You talk. You laugh. You do everything.
And yet, it’s there. Sitting quietly at the back of the mind. Unbothered by your productivity. Unimpressed by your achievements. Refusing to leave.
It’s like your ex attending your wedding without an invitation. Not interrupting the ceremony. Not creating a scene. Just… present. Making everyone slightly uncomfortable. Making you feel like something could go wrong at any moment. Except nothing goes wrong. The wedding continues. The music plays. The photos are taken. But the awareness stays.
The brain tries to interrogate it. Understand it. Locate its origin. Is it hormonal? Is it seasonal? Is it existential? Is it burnout? Is it lack of meaning? Is it too much meaning? It runs diagnostics like an overqualified technician. And it fails. Every time. Just like my laptop technician, who can’t figure out what’s wrong with it. What if it doesn’t get better and ultimately have to buy a new laptop?
See? That’s exactly what I mean. The brain would rather panic about electronics than sit with unnamed feelings. At least laptops come with warranties.
But I’ll continue. So when the brain fails to identify the source, it does what it does best. It compensates.
Every sadness has a drug of choice. This one prefers something clean. Something intelligent. Something that doesn’t look like coping.
For some people, it’s endless scrolling. For others, it’s overworking. For a few, it’s constant socialising.
For me, I think it’s analysis. If I can’t feel it properly, I’ll try to understand it properly. I’ll categorise it. Label it. Research it. The brain loves a good investigation. It feels productive. It feels responsible.
Apparently, trying to write this article isn’t the first time I’ve tried to trick my brain. Hehe.
Sometimes the drug is numbness. I simply let things happen on their own. I don’t correct. I don’t intervene. I try not to use my brain. I know that’s impossible, but I attempt it anyway. I experiment with being unbothered. Sometimes the drug is binge-watching a show. Who has time to feel vague sadness when you’re too busy being angry at a fictional killer for leaving fingerprints on a door handle? Is that how you’re going to be a serial killer? Nobody taught you anything?
And then there’s the most dangerous drug of all. Normalcy. You convince yourself this is just adulthood. This is how everyone feels. There’s nothing to address. Nothing dramatic enough to fix. So you carry it politely. You work. You laugh. You show up. And in tiny, unguarded seconds between tasks, it reminds you it’s still there. Not dramatic enough to collapse you. Not weak enough to disappear. Just present.
Maybe the reason it has no clear origin is because it doesn’t belong to one event. Maybe it’s accumulated silence. Unasked questions. Small misalignments stacked over time.
Or maybe it’s nothing that poetic.
Maybe it’s just the cost of being aware. I don’t know.
And for once, I’m not going to interrogate it. I’ll just let it sit there.
“Sadness Of Unknown Origin And Its Drug Of Choice”
