Soundtrack to a Schizophrenic Mind :: Psychology Loneliness Essays

Soundtrack to a Schizophrenic Mind "The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the sky." ~Jack Kerouac On the Road Track 1: Ryan Adams>> "Back beat the word is on the street that the fire in your heart is out..." Next door and two flights up an unknown woman sings scales, melancholic and operatic, ghostlike, she vocalizes the sorrows that haunt me. Music has always been my salvation. A feeling rolls in, filling the empty vibration of my atmosphere. Rain, softly at first, then steadily. The universe weeps. It feels like God mocks me, showing off by crying when I can't. In retrospect, maybe he was empathizing, like a parent leading by example, gently nudging me to follow suit. But presently, I am bitter, completely incapable of seeing optimistically. Perception is inseparable from state of mind. There is a huge difference between being alone and feeling lonely. The former is bearable, even enjoyable, when a person is actually physically alone. The latter, being surrounded by the people who care, yet separated by an invisible distance, a magnetic charge of pride and insecurity, repelling love despite closeness of its proximity and the friendliest of intentions, tortures the soul. In Thailand, halfway across the world, I missed the people I love, but in a happy nostalgic way. Alone yet never lonely. Home again, I see them every day, smile at them, converse with them, yet cannot connect psychically. There is no heart in my friendships here. Surrounded by the people I once missed, I feel only empty. 58 moonstones arranged on links of tarnished silver wrap loosely around my bony fingers. I am not catholic, or even Christian, but on this night I slide my fingertips over the smooth rosary beads. Drowning. Sometimes it is just so painful to be alive. Screams, trapped with the tears somewhere inside, build a dam of hopelessness and frustration to protect society from the unsightly emotions: anger, sadness, grief. Freud called it melancholy: loss unmourned. Modern society calls it depression, apparently a phenomenon common amongst students returning from extended travels in "developing" countries. "You'll readjust in a month or so", they consoled me.