(Where the narrator adopts the third person in an attempt to get some longitude on the matter of melacholy)
Her melancholy sits close by, never far away, hanging about like morning mist on the mountain, fog in the valley, dissolving into steam when the sun's bright rays warm up the day. It is a cloak she wears when things get too cold or too hot, too uncomfortable to bear, then she can wrap herself in its soothing mantle, burrow down into its comforting darkness just as Marj would, day after day, month after month, year after year, in her unhappiness bed.
It's never allowed to become full blown depression, must always be kept in check, there is not enough room for two depressive divas in one family; she could never go down that road, never give in to facing the wall as Marj did, so she kept it neat, kept it tidy, kept it low grade; a respectable ennui, a salute to her mother's illness, a pledge of solidarity, a promise that until Marj found happiness she would remain unhappy too.
So while she occasionally made visits to a lady shrink, a bespectacled therapist who nodded off when her stories got boring, she refused suggestions of drugs or medical intervention. Instead she would try other things: like eating six almonds before bed, swallowing tinctures of St Johns Wort, St Mary's Thistle, walking, yoga and whistling. Perhaps these measures soothed her briefly, or perhaps the fact that she was taking some kind of self nurturing steps was responsible for putting a skip in her step for a time, but sooner or later the melancholic mist would roll in, seducing her once more, luring her into it's false salve.
Is melancholy an imperative for the writer? Is it a neccessary place from which to plumb the depth of feeling? Isn't the act of writing itself always a nostalgic act, a looking back, a contemplation of moments past?
More investigation needed...
Her melancholy sits close by, never far away, hanging about like morning mist on the mountain, fog in the valley, dissolving into steam when the sun's bright rays warm up the day. It is a cloak she wears when things get too cold or too hot, too uncomfortable to bear, then she can wrap herself in its soothing mantle, burrow down into its comforting darkness just as Marj would, day after day, month after month, year after year, in her unhappiness bed.
It's never allowed to become full blown depression, must always be kept in check, there is not enough room for two depressive divas in one family; she could never go down that road, never give in to facing the wall as Marj did, so she kept it neat, kept it tidy, kept it low grade; a respectable ennui, a salute to her mother's illness, a pledge of solidarity, a promise that until Marj found happiness she would remain unhappy too.
So while she occasionally made visits to a lady shrink, a bespectacled therapist who nodded off when her stories got boring, she refused suggestions of drugs or medical intervention. Instead she would try other things: like eating six almonds before bed, swallowing tinctures of St Johns Wort, St Mary's Thistle, walking, yoga and whistling. Perhaps these measures soothed her briefly, or perhaps the fact that she was taking some kind of self nurturing steps was responsible for putting a skip in her step for a time, but sooner or later the melancholic mist would roll in, seducing her once more, luring her into it's false salve.
Is melancholy an imperative for the writer? Is it a neccessary place from which to plumb the depth of feeling? Isn't the act of writing itself always a nostalgic act, a looking back, a contemplation of moments past?
More investigation needed...
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