Ironically, it's Plath and Woolf who offer me comfort on my bad days and a pressing sensitivity on my precariously happy days. These depressed women should technically not be important at all because sadness should not be not important. It is proof of waste, a symptom of loss. Get over it, I say, focus on the future. But we like to meditate on the past don't we? There's so much to learn from sorrow, if one cares to dissect it into its constituent elements. Mostly, however, one does no such thing; one tends to focus exclusively on the pain of it, for the exquisite sense of awareness it brings.
Both of these writers are so empathetic, life must have been one excruciating affair for them, as clearly seen from one's compulsion to test the boiling point of brain by sticking her head into an oven and the other's mid day stroll down to the middle of a rushing river with stones in her pockets. What hell it should be for having no respite from reality! No precious illusions, nothing to quiet the questions, the inability or perhaps the unwillingness to find any answers. The world we see through their eyes is drenched in meaning. A world over which loomed an inevitable darkness. A beautiful world but also a sad world- a frozen moment before the thing of beauty wastes away or mutates into something terrible. In fact, that is just hearsay from Rilke:
For beauty is nothing but the beginning of terror, which we are still just able to endure,
and we are so awed because it serenely disdains to annihilate us.
Every angel is terrifying.
(Duino Elegies)1912 to 1922
Oh well..This one's to everybody out there who's depressed/sad or anything of that sort..Just a reassurance that you arent the only person so..
Have a nice day :)
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