I am a sadist. But before you take up your sticks to come and beat me to death, let me clarify — I am no criminal who likes inflicting pain on a person. No, I am too fragile a body for that. I am a sadist who revels in sorrow. Unlike joy with all the radiance around, sorrow is lonely. And sorrow is real.
Pain attracts me. It abides by a raw, uninhibited feeling of helplessness and that makes it all the more beautiful to feel. A person in pain is vulnerable. And vulnerability is weakness. Say a few kind words to a man who is suffering and he will flood you with bouts of gratitude.
It is in grief that a man his own real self. You get to see a being devoid of the thousand masks that he sports. Unlike joy, grief tears everything apart. And in the devastation that follows, I get to see a naked man; a picture of his real self that he so carefully hides. This face of his has a lot to say and these are not all words of sugar.
Sadism is often, a shunned form of art. And that is amusing. For, most of the artists there are exponents of this form. Do they not absorb the melancholia around them and turn them into countless tales of valor? A poet watches the death of a man and writes about the soul escaping into a beautiful abyss of nothingness. But, does he really know if it does? What if, death is but the end with no beginning to look up to?
We all are afraid of realism. And honesty is an overrated disaster. As much as you love talking about how the truth sets you free, it does not. I have been a victim. The glory of truth lies inside the pages of those paperback fantasies that do not exist. That is where it begins. And that is where it ends. And away from all these sweet tales of joy marred with lies, I revel in sorrow. Sorrow is lonely. And sorrow is real.