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03 July 2014 @ 12:58 am

'Why must one climb the hill ? Why must one climb? Why not stay below? Why force one’s way up the slope? Why force one’s way up and up, when one is at the bottom? Oh, it was very tiring, very wearying, very burdensome. Always burdens, always, always burdens. '
23 June 2014 @ 02:46 am
“Little soul, gentle and drifting, guest and companion of my body, now you will dwell below in pallid places, stark and bare; there you will abandon your play of yore. But one moment still, let us gaze together on these familiar shores, on these objects which doubtless we shall not see again....Let us try, if we can, to enter into death with open eyes...” Marguerite Yourcenar, Memoirs of Hadrian
23 November 2012 @ 02:36 am

There is one thing that is worse than a change: the moment when you realize that things will change. That moment has a strange melancholia in itself. A melancholia for the present... A foreshadowing melancholia, it is.

Starting from that moment things really start to change. The thought itself is the first thing that changes things. The melancholia for the present creates a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Oh things will change, that is for sure, yes sir! Things will be different. And I, as this humble human being, am cursed with being haunted by the constant shadow of melancholy. In a complete narcissistic way, I miss not people, places, things; but how they made me feel. I miss my very own self from those days. I miss how my grandmother"s house made me feel. The feelings that the smell of her house gave me are nowhere to be found now. Nothing else makes me feel so safe and peaceful in the same way, in its own particular way. 

I"m sure they say many things about death, sir. They love saying things, don"t they? Is it a cruel mistress? Do we get used to it eventually? Do we learn how to cope with the absence of a person in the end?

Oh yes they do and it is and we do. But the emptiness that is left behind when a person is not there anymore remains as the same emptiness. Furniture has been carried out. The same sofa that your loved one used to sit on everyday has been given to a charity shop now. The rooms are empty, the floors are dusty and the the emptiness that has been left behind when that someone died is the windy hall of your memory. Pain has been carried away with the furniture. Tears dried long ago. Face faded, voice gone.

And yet the emptiness still remains.

Melancholia is the ghost behind my back, sir. Give me forgetfulness, because remembrance is the cruelest of all the mistresses.