July 27 2025: The monotonous sadness landscape

You know how boring it is sometimes on a long drive? When you’ve been on the road for hours and the landscape never changes—just rocks, trees, pavement, again and again?

That’s what my life feels like right now.

That’s what sadness feels like.

And strangely, I don’t mind it. I don’t want a detour. I don’t crave a scenic road or a spark of energy or adventure. I just want to keep going on this same stretch, in silence, in stillness. There’s no desire to shift lanes or change pace. Just me, and the endless, repetitive view.

And in that state… what do I even have to offer?

What can I give to people—friends, partners, coworkers? I feel empty. Hollow. Like my presence offers nothing but the same dull stretch of road. So I isolate. Not out of bitterness, but because there’s nothing new to say.

People ask:

“How was your day?”

“How was your weekend?”

“What are your plans?”

And my honest answer? The same. Always the same.

Same road. Same landscape. Same feelings. Same nothing.

All those questions feel like pressure—expectations to perform a version of life I’m not living right now. Expectations to match a sunny day with a sunny smile. Expectations based on who I used to be. What I used to enjoy. What summer should look like. And when I don’t meet those silent expectations, I feel like I’m letting people down—friends, strangers, myself.

So I retreat.

I don’t want to keep explaining my lack of smile, my quiet face, my low energy, my still sadness. I don’t want to give updates on my healing, my mood, my process.

And yet… I also don’t want to be alone.

But I’m so, so tired of explaining myself.

Tired of offering people a map to understand me. Tired of crafting context for my grief, my beliefs, my choices. Tired of hoping they’ll nod and say, “Ah, yes, now it makes sense.”

Because the truth is—I don’t need their permission. I don’t want their approval. I don’t even want their understanding anymore.

I want company.

The kind that just sits beside you in silence.

No questions. No solutions. No suggestions.

Just a shared breath. A quiet presence. A sacred space to simply exist.

I don’t want brainstorming sessions on how to fix my life.

I don’t want assessments, strategies, or growth plans.

I don’t want deadlines. I don’t have one. I’m not ready. And I don’t want to be rushed.

And yes… maybe it’s hard to be close to someone whose energy feels like a flat, unchanging road. I get it. That’s why I isolate.

I feel disassociated from my own life. Like I’m watching it from afar.

And I’ve come to realize: I don’t owe anyone an explanation all the time.

Because even when I do explain myself—carefully, vulnerably, thoroughly—it still doesn’t guarantee I’ll be understood.

People see through their own filters. Their own experiences.

And I simply don’t have the energy anymore to try and translate my soul.

Right now, I have to use my energy wisely. And wisely means softly.

I also recognize that I might not always understand someone else the way they need to be understood either. So I ask myself:

What do I need right now, in this condition?

And the answer is simple:

I’m like a wounded animal. Exhausted. Bare. Vulnerable.

I don’t want to explain myself.

I don’t want to be misunderstood after I’ve exhausted myself trying to be

understood.

I just want to be felt. Seen. Held.

This brings me to a quiet realization:

Do we always need to understand people in order to offer them care?

Do we need to know the full story, the reasons behind their pain, or the logic of their sadness?

What if pain doesn’t need to make sense to us?

What if it simply needs to be witnessed?

Sadness is sadness.

Grief is grief.

Exhaustion, hopelessness, overwhelm—these are human truths we all touch, whether or not we understand each other’s reasons.

And when someone is in that space, they don’t need a lecture.

They don’t need insight, perspective, or growth lessons.

They need presence.

An ear. A shoulder. A moment of stillness.

Someone to say, even silently: I’m here. I see your pain. I don’t need to understand it to honor it.

I wish I had that more often.

And I hope, one day, I can offer it to someone else.

Not answers.

Not advice.

Just that pure, soul-level relief: compassion without condition.