The Fascination with Unhappiness

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"He has been procrastinating.

Too lazy to write. Don't know what to write about. Ideas came and ideas left; he was a vessel bobbing on the waters, slightly empty yet never completely so.

He wrote short sentences, pearls of them but none of them can be strung into a decent paragraph. Individually, they're beautiful - they look and sound sad. A mouthful of melancholy. But that's when you consider them individually.

He didn't know what to think or how he should think. His fears, with each passing day, become more corporeal.

He's afraid that he'll be mediocre, forever wishing and hoping that he can be more courageous, more willing to pursue his dreams.

What is it with him and unhappiness? Why does being unhappy give him such perverse pleasure? He was like an addict, inexorably drawn towards sadness, drawn towards it against his reason and will. Perhaps it was all he could feel, and he'd rather feel that than nothing."

[ A wise man shared a joke. The crowd roared with mirth. When he repeated that joke, fewer people laughed. By the third time he said it, no one was tickled. He asked, "why is it that we cannot laugh at the same joke over and over again but we can cry over the same issue without tiring?" ]

Why indeed? I'd love to know.

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