There she sat on the ice cold floor, engulfed in darkness.
She didn’t know what she felt. This happened very often. She couldn’t express in words her emotions. It wasn’t a happy feeling for sure. Neither would she call it sad. It just felt…
She wondered why the brain was so complicated. Only yesterday she was excited about things. How can the tables turn in a matter of 24 hours? Why were these feelings so difficult to comprehend?
She agreed not everyday was Sunday. But then what was it that she felt right now? Was it anger? Sadness? Depression? Even thinking about those words made no sense to her. Everything in her life was perfect. No. It was more than perfect.
Then why this feeling?
It was an unpleasant experience, this alien feeling growing inside of her. At first it was just a gentle nudge on the inside, now as the hours had passed it grew like a poisonous vine. Its thorny branches tearing up her insides.
The pressure of bottling it was too much to handle. It felt as if she wouldn’t survive the explosion. The poisonous vine grew tighter around her lungs, doing everything to get hold of her heart and make it bleed.
Gasping for breath, her body began to shudder. Wave after wave of violent sobs washed over her. She was glad about the loud music that played a few feet below. It drowned the screams of her sorrow.
With every passing wave her body grew exhausted. She realized that she could breath again. The tears as exhausting as they were, had washed out all the bottled up toxins.
And for the first time that day she felt as if she was ready to face the world again.
Vladmir Nabokov had the best description for this word – “No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness, mental throes, yearning. In particular cases it may be the desire for somebody of something specific, nostalgia, love-sickness. At the lowest level it grades into ennui, boredom.”