Photo Illustration by Sage Nenyue| VOX Staff

By Sage Nenyue
VOX Staff

So, there was this boy in a terrible state. His eyes were narrowed, red enough to rival the scarlet of fresh-spilled blood. His body was so exhausted that it moved with the erratic shivering of treetops in the wind. The boy found himself detached and alone, operating on autopilot at all times. His mind was high above earth, sitting on air currents and making small talk with the moon — much too busy to attend to life’s mundane tasks.

The boy did things to get his absent mind’s attention. He threw mood swings, he deprived himself of food and he developed contempt for the things he loved. He lost his passion; he lost himself.

I had always been an optimistic person, as if optimism was programmed into my genes. Nothing could get under my skin to make me lose the twinkle in my eye. My family’s financial troubles were no troubles at all. (I’ve been just at the poverty-line all my life and still perfectly happy.) My on-again/off-again social life was no big deal. (After all, too much of one thing is a bad thing.) While defending my non-Christian-in-the-Bible-Belt spirituality was tiresome at times, it was a welcomed positive stress. I was doing just fine. Little did I know, angst was knocking at my front door.

Experiencing Isolation
The world suddenly inverted. I don’t know what it was, but one early winter morning I woke up and the day was as crisp and clear as a beautiful ornate crystal glass. But the beauty didn’t feel beautiful at all; it was ordinary, average, commonplace.

I saw the world clearly, and I saw that it was meaningless and hollow.

I wondered, why was the sky such an ugly color? Why was the sun so gray? Why were people so predictable? Why look for words when there was nothing to say?

But as I said, optimism was wired into my 15-year-old genes.

As I grew more and more detached from the world, I subconsciously tried to anchor myself down. I needed something to confirm that I existed, that I was real and had a place in this world. I wanted to feel, but there was just not enough time during daylight. So I became a night-owl. I began to stay up for far too long into the morning. Going to sleep during my usual time at 11 p.m. became 4 a.m. until I nearly stopped sleeping altogether.

I took to wearing only shorts and a T-shirt on the freezing balcony as I stared at the silver-bathed world under the humongous moon. Things tended to sparkle in the sun-borrowed light with more meaning. I would take in lungfuls of the cold air and reflect on the natures of people: What made them the way they were? Why did they do the things they did?

The air felt good — it represented intelligence, prudence and gave me clarity. That feeling was the meaning of being Aquarius. The air’s coolness put power in my veins and made me feel again. I would glide downstairs and walk on the frosty, bristly grass and feel the pure unadulterated earth run through me and lend me its eyes so that I could see the beauty of the world as it was. But the feeling only lasted as long as the moon shone or as long as I could remain awake. When I fell asleep, the magic was gone and the world returned with all its unglamorous averageness.

I turned to martial arts for stimulus, letting my passion for the physical activity drive me. There were classes offered at my school at night. Slamming people and being slammed onto sweaty mats in Judo, or being evasive and water-like in Capoeira gave me a rush. And there was nothing like using soreness to distract myself from the fact that my mind was miles and miles away.

Eyes half-closed and perpetually sleepy with no one noticing his lack of appetite, the boy’s detachment became an expected norm, his mood swings predictable. He became pessimistic and nonchalant, two skills that served to keep him barred from humanity’s hearts.

Somehow he went on, two sides warring inside of him, two oceans churning opposite the other: wax and wane, decay and development. And the sides that promoted a healthy body, mind and social life were losing.

After a few months, friends and family saw that I was way too distant and sought to bring me back with help and guidance. I said no. I didn’t need their support. Part of isolation is overlooking the tiny fact that other people matter and that you are not the center of the universe. It is really easy to forget that other people exist when you don’t regard them at all. I didn’t think I was the center of the universe — I was the universe.

Downward Spiral
I used to laugh at people who described their lives as downward spirals, the big trend on MySpace and LiveJournal. But when I found myself tripping and flipping to reach what I thought was happiness, I understood. The downward spiral, the endless abyss — if you let it overwhelm you, the spiral is truly only one way down, and the abyss has no exit. I was sliding down the spiral and trapped in the abyss. When I actually took the time to tune into the conversations around me, I realized that people had grown used to my non-participation and frostiness. I realized that people thought less of me; I really was floating out of their universes. I needed in.

Eventually, my emptiness suddenly popped, as if I just didn’t want to be isolated anymore, and so I wasn’t. It was like someone changed the filters in front of my eyes, and I could see the way I used to. It was a relief to be back, but there were still bridges to be mended: I had to reintroduce myself to people and show them that I was ready to be a part of the human race again. I had to straighten up and stop slouching (I find that if you are not used to slumping over then you really only do it when you’re somewhat emotional).

The world grew larger and larger until I was back on earth. The dull, bleary world livened up so I could actually enjoy my days and not spend them waiting for night. My sarcasm spilled down the drain, and I started eating again.

As bubbly and over-optimistic as I am right now, I dare say that I would re-welcome my withdrawal if I could take it in smaller doses. I do recognize the unhealthiness of eating little-to-nothing and neglecting the everyday this-and-that of the world. But if I could just experience the world’s moonlit beauty without the negative effects …

This boy went on, keeping an optimistic outlook to the point of exhaustion. He was better off, though from time to time he would slip and become an empty vessel, watching his body work from the edge of the atmosphere as it ran on autopilot.

But he learned from experience that his detachment did not imply anything wrong. He had no reason to be a cynic in such a beautiful world. He also recognized that no person is unmoving; people change all the time. He accepted that there were times when he would feel isolated and his heart would harden. He also accepted that those times are meant for him to reflect and make sense of the hard, cruel world around him. Who wouldn’t benefit from that?

So this boy climbed up his downward spiral and found an exit to the abyss. He posted “Danger” signs over the spiral and a “Caution: Endless Pit” sign over the abyss. He guarded the entrances with his life, hoping that he could keep others from having to work their way out. He would lecture them until he was blue in the face, telling them about the dangers that lay ahead, explaining his story in graphic detail.
But he never realized that there were more openings to those dark places so people fell in anyway. He would try to pull them back, but ultimately recognize it as a lost cause: people would be saved when they wanted to be saved and would likely save themselves. He decided that if he could guide just one person away from the danger of depression, he would be just fine.

Sage is a senior at Tech High who thanks his teacher, Mr. Gibson, for helping him slip back into his humanity.