There’s Something Wrong

One year ago, I wrote the following in one of my first ever prose pieces:

The eyes of those upon whom I gazed spoke the words no man would speak. What words I heard showed me visions. Visions of another life. And every movement told a story. Each whisper, a scream.

Was this always so? Before my eyes were opened? Or was I merely blind to the world that runs beneath? Beneath the gaze of others. Beneath the words and whispers. Beneath the sights before me.

I stopped writing poetry, prose, and really everything this year. The last thing I ever wrote (apart from a few posts here) was the following intended for my upcoming book:

There is silence in the sounds of others’ voices. Is it the lack of meaning in their words? Is it the lack of my voice amongst them? Whatever the case, there is silence. Unending silence. A void that cannot be filled. The day is not enough — nor the night. No passage of time despite its flow is enough. Only silence. It alone fills the void with its absence.

What is missing? Is it me, or the world? How can I ever come to know? What people I know are good people, so I see. So who is to blame for their silence? Perhaps one day I might speak: speak, and be heard. Though then I ask: To whom? By whom? I have not spoken, and there is nothing left to say. I am filled by silence. My void is silence. And the void calls out its pain.

What prompts me to share this is a series of circumstances that make no sense to me. Like everything else, it all began when I moved to Iceland — one year ago. I came, ever so happy and naive, to pursue my dreams. I never imagined where that would leave me. I cried in such a way as I have never cried before, lost and alone in Hveragerði. It was the realization that I had given up everyone and everything I had ever known for absolutely nothing: I had failed, and the cost was my life. Of course, nobody is ever alone so long as you can bring yourself to ask for help. So I did, in my own way. This led to me spending time with a friend and their friend.

They talked at one point about relationships. Naming people I didn’t know, etc. I remember him asking her, “Is she cute?” regarding one of those names. In my state at that time, I looked to her, dumbstruck. Of all the questions he could have asked, why that? I was not in a good state of mind which made the experience stick with me. I’ll come back to the significance of this question.

When I left Iceland in June of last year, I was not happy. I visited my dentist soon after returning. When she smiled at me, I saw a frown. She told me about the people in her life, happily. But the words I heard were not happy stories. That is what prompted the prose piece referenced initially. In fact, I saw everything like this. I met with one of my best friends. I told him about my escapades in Iceland. He turned the subject to various medias. Why? I asked myself. I am no judge, but I assume unhappiness. Similarly, I have a friend where our conversations consist of me being sent links, memes, and videos. It never goes deeper than that. I have tried. Why? Surely not happiness.

I met someone shortly after. It was a very strange situation, but the relevant part is I had the chance to finally ask that question: “Why?” I asked her. She wouldn’t answer. So I told her what I thought her why was. “No,” she said, then went on to come up with some elaborate line of thought where she was simply having thoughts and feelings because that was how it was. “But why do you have those feelings?” I asked. And then we hit a wall. She lives comfortably unaware behind that wall to this day.

I met someone else. He says happiness is overrated. Is he right? I wouldn’t know. To each their own. Is he happy? Clearly not, though perhaps content. Then there was someone else. He actually knew why. He knew, he acted, but something wasn’t right. As aware as he was of the problems, he was not self-aware. Though for him, I have hope.

And then another person. She told me about a very sad family life. A very sad life in general in a very sad place. In a completely different context, regarding travel, she said she was afraid of doing something wrong — of getting in trouble. How telling that was.

Yet again, I met someone. “I might look like a happy person, but I’m someone who struggles with depression,” he said. It was a good conversation, he was open in an intimate setting with some friends. He chased high after high. Even literal heights. It was sad and interesting, to see how someone copes.

There is someone else, still, the most important person of them all. An enigma. Is this person sad? I think so. I met other people still, “the circle.” Were they sad? Yes. What a sad conversation I had with one of them. He told me of his hopes and dreams. He had a vision. But it was flawed. But a dream is a dream, what else does one have to live for? And this person? This incomprehensible person? I have seen something new, a new perspective: aware of their own unawareness. I wrote in You, Man, Emotion, the following line:

The only satisfaction you will ever know is constant distraction from the world you let go.

Or, as Levé writes:

You died because you searched for happiness at the risk of finding the void.

These people are just a handful of examples. Ever since Hveragerði, I’ve been asking, “Are they really happy?” I’ve wondered whether anyone is truly happy. Happiness is fleeting, yes, but is anyone content? There is always a “next thing,” a when or an if. And endless, constant, distraction. To sit with oneself. That is the torture of the modern world.

What is the significance of that question, then? That “Is she cute?” It was not a relationship he sought. Rather, another distraction. What does she do? What is she like? Those would surely be more genuine, meaningful questions. He wouldn’t have thought to ask them, though. And it isn’t his fault. Who is to blame for what seems so pervasively wrong? Why is this the wall that people so often run up against?

In To the Lighthouse, Virginia Woolf writes:

Lily was listening; Mrs Ramsay was listening; they were all listening. But already bored, Lily felt that something was lacking; Mr Bankes felt that something was lacking. Pulling her shawl round her, Mrs Ramsay felt that something was lacking. All of them bending themselves to listen thought, "Pray heaven that the inside of my mind may not be exposed," for each thought, "The others are feeling this. They are outraged and indignant with the government about the fishermen. Whereas, I feel nothing at all."

Woolf and Levé both killed themselves.

It becomes a game of hiding. Not only from others, but from our own selves. And why? Why is that necessary? Because of unhappiness. Because, were we to sit with ourselves — to fully be aware of ourselves — we would be sad. Why do people drink alcohol to socialize? Why would you not want to be your full self to interact with other people? It’s the very same idea: they don’t want to be their full selves.

My friend who is not happy but content. What does he do? He gets high every day. What is it that is content, then? Him, or his brain? And is there even a difference? Is a happy brain a happy person — indulgence? Would we all be better off throwing chemicals at our brains rather than putting effort into our lives? Clearly, there is a difference between the brain and the self. Look at the homeless of the United States: so many people on drugs that make them happy. Are they happy people? No. There is a difference. It is self-awareness. But the less aware, the happier. The more aware, the less happy…

I wish I could conclude this post with an answer: of how to be happy or what happiness even is. As for those people you see around you — it doesn’t even matter whether on social media or in real life — I have learned they are very much the same. Yes, they post happy pictures. Yes, they seem like such a happy couple. But are they? Are they really what they seem? In my experience: no. Nothing is as it seems. They can smile for the camera. They can smile for you. But can they smile for themselves? The following are some relevant quotes from my coming book:

For what do you seek the input of others? For what do you share yourself with the world? What is it that you seek? What is it that you go without? Do you take no pride in who you are? Do you find no solace in your reflection? Must the world be your mirror? Must they dictate your perception of self? I have seen you. I have known you. I know that you are good. Is that not enough? Because the world is blind.

Everything happens exactly as it needs to, but only if you allow it. Resist, and you will suffer. Suffer, and you will find joy.

Depressed and pessimistic literature is fascinating. I find nothing to be gained in reading about joyous lives and the beauty of the world. In sorrow and suffering alone is beauty to be found. By standing upon the heights of despair, I gaze down upon a wondrous, beautiful world. Were I to hear only of the joys of life, in no way would the passing clouds cast light upon a darkened earth. Were I to hear only of others’ happiness, in no way would the simplicity of being bring peace unto my soul.

All I can say with certainty is that unhappiness is a blessing. To experience pain and suffering is a beautiful thing. If you do not find happiness in the most simple and mundane of experiences, then you have not suffered enough to be happy. How else does one come to appreciate the little things in life, what little life has to offer? I have come to find happiness in socializing. Not long-lasting, profound happiness, but joy at the very least. And I don’t drink. Why do I feel that way? Because much of my suffering came from isolating. Now I appreciate being around other people. I like walking, too. Why? Because I spent most of my life inside. By my own fault. In the extent of my writing career, I have made a profit of $0. I have lost hundreds to printing costs. But I enjoy writing. The same goes for photography: I have lost thousands to it and made nothing. To me, these are not expenses. Rather, they are things that I enjoy. Nothing more. Nothing less. Simple things. I give myself the time for them. I make time for them. I appreciate them because of how I once suffered.

Am I happy? Maybe not. But I no longer suffer. I have pains, yes, but I have learned the ways of this world. I am often alone, with myself, in silence. And in this, I find peace: not a person whom I fear — now, my tears are shed for others... mostly.

What is wrong, anyway? Something stood out to me when I read Frankenstein, it was the fact that everyone travelled around, and that travel took weeks. Weeks, they spent together, months, even. The mere act of going from country to country was an adventure. And to do anything anywhere required interaction. Real, human interaction. The most popular interaction now is social media. It’s one thing to interact with friends or family. But strangers — people without any personal connection? Why are they popular? I’m in no position to offer any profound insight or answers. Rather, I pose that question for thought: Why are they popular?

A means to be and express ourselves in the company of others, doing what we enjoy, would be ideal. I’ve known plenty of older people who get together, sit around somewhere like a home or restaurant, and talk. They are the happiest of us all. They know some secret that seems to have been lost to the modern world: the secret of being — of being present.

I’ve been walking around Reykjavík now for almost four months. I’m almost always the only person walking. Everyone else takes the bus or drives their car. Why? It’s about saving time, being efficient, going from thing to thing optimally. And what is optimal? Filling every minute of an already busy schedule? Is that so much better than walking around on a nice day, even if the hour-long walk would have taken me 15 minutes by bus?

The real significance of asking “Is she cute?” is the idea that immediate attraction should be the foundation of a relationship. Next, next, next. Fast. Quickly. It is an attitude towards life. Driving rather than walking. Buying premade food rather than cooking. Video chatting or calling rather than meeting up. It’s an attitude — a mindset — that we aren’t even aware of. The world is speeding up, and the cost is our mental health… the cost is our humanity.