Through The Looking Glass

​The mind is a very intricate thing, and I do strongly believe that it runs the lives of every person in extremely diverse ways. People perceive things in a multitude of variation. To some, sadness is an emblem of everyday life, living with it because they’re too lonely without it. To others, it’s a tear or two for something hurting them, and then it’s gone; blissfully washed clean by the conclusion of the day. It’s not to say everyone should or shouldn’t be allowed to be sad when they must, but it’s almost as if chronic sadness deserves its very own category of words. When your mind is that muddled, whereas everyday life becomes a chore, and you need a driving force to get out of bed, you have reached the point of becoming a Riddled Soul. I am one of these people, mind bewildered by every mundane thing which crosses my path throughout the day. An observer, not a doer. We are a special breed, but most commonly understood as simply “depressed”. It’s not to say we aren’t sad, or that depression is not a symptom in our turmoil, but there is a world beyond that. Allow me to paint you a picture.

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​Each day is filled with diverse perceptions. People get this idea that depressed people are just broken, like a wind-up doll that chooses not to walk anymore. It’s not that a choice has been made to see the world through a pessimistic view, it’s the reluctance to be normal, to conform. Riddled Souls see things for what they are, there’s black and white, and plain and simple, but we do pick up on everything in-between. We see the importance of all that lingers. Be it a sign that a friend is not passionately involved in a conversation which you’re trying to host, or that a loved one is grieving silently to themselves. It is embalmed in our nature to reach out and take pain from others, even if it distorts our own emotions and worsens “our condition”.

​When I was four years old, my parents got a divorce. I remember the police showing up, and I was crying on the stairs as my grandmother tried to relay to me emotions that I could not comprehend because she spoke only by Russian tongue, and me by English. Her words flew by me as nonsense, but I felt how overwhelmed and upset she was. Imagine her being every Riddled Soul you’ve ever come across. They strive to explain things to you, how their mind functions, but the words they use make no sense or relation to you. You can’t understand them, let alone help them.

​Years later, I could tell my father was looking to love a woman again. He was proud of his seven-year-old daughter, and nine-year-old son, but he was missing a part of him he had once earned from my mother. Their marriage was far from perfect, but they functioned as a unit, providing for one another where necessary. I remember huddling beneath my covers, fingers entangled in one another, praying to the lord that he would take my happiness away and give it to my father, somebody who was in desperate need of it. Even though I lacked the knowledge of what type of Soul I truly was back then, something in me ached to give my father what he most desired. That is what we do. We give and give and give until there is nothing left for us. We are not selfishly sad as some seem to interpret it, but instead so selfless that we knowingly run ourselves into the ground.

​Revisiting my point of reluctance, oftentimes brains such as mine don’t want to be normal, or to “get better” as most would say. If taking pills could help us blend into the crowd, to feel that normalcy, then no one in our states of mind would ever so much as sniff that type of drug. It is in a deeply rooted way, that beyond the suffering, we perceive this world of sadness as a gift. We see things others don’t, touch things most people cannot feel, breathe an entirely different type of air into our lungs. Have you ever felt a wave of emotion wash over you, rushing through your blood, seeping into each vein individually, making you shiver with delight at the sensation? Riddlers feel this intimacy, the connection between their mind and their body.

Being normal means no more intensity of thought, no more self-ownership. If society were to successfully conform us, we would be bored out of our minds. We can never work in normal places, desk jobs and sedentary office work. It’s belittling, knowing we are capable of so much more. This is where artistry takes hold, producing innovative ways of expression previously unacknowledged by the world. Have you ever wondered why artists and musicians seem so-called, depressed? We dance, paint, write, anything we may do to weaponize our emotions, and turn them into a justification of actions. Artistry is born when you learn to feel on a whole new level, something Riddled minds do every day with a lack of intent.