On Syrma

Syrma
(n.)
A long dress, trailing on the floor, worn by tragic actors in Greek and Roman theaters.

A name chosen to reflect the human attraction to tragedy, how we as human beings take delight in reading or hearing or seeing of the misfortunes of other people. No calamity can ever be so catastrophic as those revolving around ourselves, but in discovering them, we can take solace in the fact that they have not happened to us. We do not enjoy them because we enjoy suffering, no. We are just thankful that we are not the characters in that play, the bits in the horror story, the victims in the car crash. We drag along behind such tragedies, staying as close as we possibly can, immersing ourselves as much as possible, without actually becoming involved. The dangerous proximity just adds to the thrill, we say. That could happen to us, we say. We hope it does not, we pray. Is that the truth?

A moniker selected to push through the facade of everyday tragedy, acted out as convincingly as possible, to garner the largest audience we can. Human beings constantly thirst for an audience, attention, and so may, every once in a blue moon (we say), exaggerate a recount of what was surely just as terrible and emotional as our words make it seem. No catastrophe could ever be so calamitous as what happened to me!, we think, and in this thought, we allow others to comfort themselves in our supposed misery. All we wanted was some comfort, some proof that though cosmic forces may spit on our shadows, human beings still care for our well-being. It is not as though we are really acting, really pretending to bear suffering, we say.



A pseudonym
picked at random
because I liked how it sounded.

The end.