Tag Archives: sadness

“The Sad”

Posted on by under Book Reviews, Longer thoughts

In the book The bell jar, by Sylvia Plath, she describes her depression as a glass bell jar, lowering itself upon her and making the air around her stale. I don’t know if I’ve ever been depressed, and I don’t think that I would describe it as a bell jar, but I do have a sadness that descends upon me every now and then. It doesn’t seem to ever leave me completely alone. Even during some of the best times of my life, it has creeped up on me. I’ts been okay though, because it’s been during moments when I’ve been able to handle it.

“The sad” is not the opposite of happiness, it’s just a the-world-is-turning-slower, I-notice-everything feeling of melancholy. It’s not necessary a bad thing, and I think I might even be okay with it following me for the rest of my life, because I think it’s linked to a lot of other parts of myself that I like and appreciate.

I’m just not handling it all too well right now. Which is why I’ve been trying to write something on this blog for days without being able to bring myself to do it. I’m not dealing with it in the right way. I know that, but I don’t really now how to change it, because of the sad. Or maybe that’s just an excuse.

Anyway. I hope you’re having a good day, and that you take time for all of those things that are more important than time. Bye.

Walking Thoughts of a Sunday Evening

Posted on by under notes

I walked through the forest today, just after the sun had set, but while the sky was still clear enough that it could have been a cloudy midday. The birds were singing like crazy, as if trying to call the day back. The forest floor was covered in green leaves and white buds that made my heart hurt. Soon those flowers will bloom and it will look like it has been snowing again, until they die and leave space for summer. I looked and walked and thought that this was the saddest sadness I’d ever seen. The birds see death and think of birth, and I see birth and think of death.

Mood

Posted on by under Book Reviews, notes

It’s a lie that to create something beautiful, some part in you has to be broken. But I don’t know that. Because I have a twisted perception of what beauty is.

That’s easier, that’s smaller, and sadness fits. It fills my heart up from the inside instead of existing around it the way my happiness does. It’s small enough for me to hold its definition in my hands even though I don’t know what it is.

 

(I just finished reading Love Letters to the Dead by Ava Dellaira and it was small but quite deep and I fell down)

Last dance

Posted on by under life

I don’t like endings.

There something special about being backstage. Too many lights and wires you’re not allowed to touch, your own little corner where you put your things, and the way you see the entire show being built up and practiced. And then the doors open, and for a few hours people get to see what you have been working on for weeks, months. And then the doors close and everything gets shut down and is no more. It’s not a painting or poem to keep. The performance only exists when you perform it, and then it’s forever gone.

I can usually look forward to do it all over again the next year, but now I graduate and have to quit just when I feel like I actually know everyone.

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So yeah, and I cried. Which was awkward, because my face gets completely red and I can’t hide it at all, and everyone get really surprised and slightly scared because I don’t usually cry and no one expects it from me. I wasn’t really that sad though. It’s just way too good, so when the curtains fall for the last time, I panic because it’s over it’s over it’s over.

Love

 

Summer evenings and writing

Posted on by under life

I should just write. Maybe the inspiration will flow from my brain like the ink from my pen and maybe the sound of violently pressing the keyboard will bring my heart to a path and back from the distracted zone of nowhere and everywhere. Maybe I should write because I actually do have things to write about, friends and laughter that have passed by, and imaginary people in faraway cultures whose adventures lies at my feet, waiting for my hands and letters. And maybe I should not write. Maybe I should never write again because I never write when I’m happy. Or maybe I should just learn to find another source to creativity, bright days and sunshine instead of bittersweetness and hearts teared apart. And maybe I should write because whatever the answer is, I know that the only way to find it is searching through my thoughts, and the only way to search through my thoughts is falling through them line for line, a never-ending flood of commas and vowels and me.

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