Why are depressed philosophers so good at what they do?
Or is there really something like pathos (Urdu describes this better as “दर्द”) instead of a made-up emotional state we prefer our poets and philosophers to be in for them to create beautiful thoughts and emotions?
Do we have no use of philosophy for the joyous?
Why, I ask, can we not enjoy ourselves without the pinprick of guilt or the knife slash of righteous indignation?
No, this is not a rant against any specific philosophy or religion or ideology or spiritual movement. It is just me wondering why we are so unhappy all the time and why we seem to think that all genius must somehow have a dark, painful secret, a past, and a soulful, sad side to it, like expecting every silver lining to have a dark cloud by default.
Why don’t we just sometimes accept, or even entertain the thought that maybe, just maybe, one need not be constantly unhappy to be considered clever?
P.S: No, I am not happy. I am absolutely fucking depressed. No, don’t try to cheer me up. It won’t work. I only wrote this post because I saw Ricky Gervais’s ‘After Life’ on Netflix last night and thought it resonated on several levels with how I have been feeling for so long that I have forgotten what it is to not feel that way. So, go away.