Sadness: beautiful or romanticised?

I'm currently writing this in a music practise room with my friend playing the violin. Romantic. (Not in a romance way, as in the idea of violin plus writing is romantic)

Last night, we had night prayers down in the common room because I'm in a Catholic boarding school. The lady in charge gave us all heart-shaped memos that were neon pink and told us to write something encouraging. She told us to exchange it with anyone in the room who's not like sitting next to us.

I drew a little guy on mine with a confident smile and a thumbs up. I scanned the room. Everyone was exchanging their memos. I wanted to say something to the few I've spoken to, ask them if they would like to exchange memos, but they've either already exchanged their memo or were talking to someone else (...or I got too scared to go up to them). So I had no choice but to keep my memo. My friend next to me asked me who I exchanged it with, and I just mumbled, "I didn't."

She went "aw" and I walked away before she could say anything else.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed, or that I wasn't holding back slightly the too-little-to-be-relevant amount of tears in my eyes, but I find beauty in this. I find beauty in being hurt. There's a sort of satisfaction in being hurt mentally. Perhaps it gives me inspiration, because it's a very raw feeling.

It wasn't a case of me feeling sorry for myself, or maybe it was. Or am I convincing myself of the satisfaction to justify the situation? No. No, I don't think so. I felt the satisfaction and I'm certain of it.

This, however, led me to contemplate down another path. Is this romanticism? Well, it's definitely not a fantasy. I'm not fetishising on being hurt, I did feel the emotion. Maybe it's partly romanticism. Maybe it's a case of me adding colours to a picture already painted (the picture being the emotion and the colours being the romanticism).

Or maybe it all comes back to me enjoying the feeling of strong emotions. To live is to feel.

Sparky x