Painful Truths
Tuesday, September 18th, 2007I have always been a bit annoyed at how some people would describe my aesthetic sensibilities as "dark", always leaning toward expressions of pain, horror or tragedy. Not so much because of the fact that I am considered dark as the way that they seem to regard being dark in general, as if it were something only so-called weirdo’s and nutjobs were capable of being. I think this is because I have always thought that a preference for the darkness and pain of life is just that–a preference, and cannot therefore be considered "less" of a preference than the usual desire to be a shiny-happy-person.
And at the risk being judged, I have to confess that I do at times revel in my darkness and pain. The primary reason being that, it’s my way of dealing with my demons. It’s always been about facing the unbearable din of the proverbial "music" and trying to make sense out of it all, maybe even learning a thing or two from it.
The funny thing is, post modern culture seems to be agreeing with me. What with the fall of "happily ever afters" in literature, music and film and the rise of painful ambiguity and chic melancholy. Or even the evolution of cool-Alanis Morissette-grunge into unbearably-popular-My-Chemical-Romance-emo– it all seems to show us that we are, oddly enough, feeling alone, together. Feeling hurt, together. Feeling rage, together. Almost as if we were all unknowingly part of some cosmic Oprah-slash-Dr. Phil show.
But that’s not even what interests me.
What interests me is that for all my efforts to confront my pain and suffering, I think I’ve unconsciously made it harder for myself to do the opposite, to "confront" happiness, to experience unadulterated joy. I seem to have turned into masochist of sorts, in that although I don’t slash my wrists, I have come to, in a way, take comfort in constant adversity because that mostly what I thought my life would be like. Just like how the cliche goes: better the devil you know.
And something tells me that alot of people from my generation, (or at least those who are "privileged" enough to have the time and resources to bitch and moan about their bourgeois lives) aren’t too different. The dumb jocks and busty cheerleaders of old are no more, and have been replaced by the cool artist types who are cool because they don’t smile, who are "man enough" to be sensitive and to cry. Granted, it’s no mean feat to deal with your demons, but it’s a whole other story to languish in your pathos just to be "cool".
More importantly, I don’t think alot of us realize how much the thought of being happy and content actually scares us to bits.
Maybe because we feel that life or other people have been so cruel to us that a genuine moment of joy is either too good to be true or just another evil ploy to trick us into believing again, just so that the carpet can pulled from under us just one more time.
And in all probability, we, the members of this decidedly tragic generation, just might be right in either assumption. Hey, shit happens right?
But good things happen too.
And more and more, I’m beginning to see that I’m man enough to endure that painful truth.
