I want to hold onto this funny thing. God, it's gotten big on me. I don't know what it is. I'm so damned unhappy, I'm so mad, and I don't know why. I feel like I'm putting on weight. I feel fat. I feel like I'm saving a lot of things, and I don't know what. I might even start reading books.
On a certain day in the blue-moon month of SeptemberBeneath a young plum tree, quietlyI held her there, my quiet, pale belovedIn my arms just like a graceful dream.And over us in the beautiful summer skyThere was a cloud on which my gaze restedIt was very white and so immensely highAnd when I looked up, it had disappeared.
I'd like to die listening to a piece of music. I imagine this as so easy, so natural, but naturally it's quite impossible. Notes stab too softly. The wounds they leave behind may smart, but they don't fester. Melancholy and pain trickle out instead of blood. When the notes cease, all is peaceful within me again.
Sé que mañana despertaré, Gryal, y lo haré tan vacía y triste como un río sin lluvia. Dime, amado, ¿quién será mi lluvia? ¿Quién mojará mi cuerpo cuando me faltes? Vuelve, amor, vuelve sano y salvo, porque si no yo no tendré primavera...
I have absolutely no pleasure in the stimulants in which I sometimes so madly indulge. It has not been in the pursuit of pleasure that I have periled life and reputation and reason. It has been the desperate attempt to escape from torturing memories, from a sense of insupportable loneliness and a dread of some strange impending doom.
I want to kill her and I have been trying since long. But in a way that she could remember my innocence, and would think of my care towards her and i am so much desperate to kill her so that pain sharply pierce through her eye and come out as tears flowing through the soft cheek. I just want to kill her by killing myself from her life.
I went to bed and woke in the middle of the night thinking I heard someone cry, thinking I myself was weeping, and I felt my face and it was dry.Then I looked at the window and thought: Why, yes, it's just the rain, the rain, always the rain, and turned over, sadder still, and fumbled about for my dripping sleep and tried to slip it back on.
What if you wake up one fine morning only to realize that the life you have been living since the last few days was nothing but a dream of yours?Would you go back to sleep then?I wake up each morning only to realize you're not by my side. And if this emptiness is nothing but a nightmare, let me wake up and go back to the time we were together...
Concha would cry when she found out I was dead, she should have no taste for life for months afterward. But I was still the one who was going to die. I thought of her soft, beautiful eyes. when she looked at me something passed her to me. But I knew it was over: if she looked at me now the look would stay in her eyes, it wouldn't reach me. I was alone
Gwynn, she was always talking about wanting to be drunk and honestly I did want to encourage that, I wanted to go to a bar with her and let all the stuff sobriety pushed down be released so I could catch it in my palms and finally kiss her. She was just so sad. Melancholy was a fleshy wave permanently cresting on her face, she had to speak through it when she talked.
The exhilaration was hard to explain. It was a lonely feeling — a somehow melancholy feeling. He was outside; he passed on the wings of the wind, and none of the people beyond the brightly lighted squares of their windows saw him. They were inside, inside where there was light and warmth. They didn't know he had passed them; only he knew. It was a secret thing.
Se nu er jeg borte fra byens larm ogtrængsel og aviser og mennesker, jeg erflygtet fra det altsammen fordi det igjenkaldte på mig fra landet og ensomhetenhvor jeg er fra. Du skal se det kommertil å gå godt! Tænker jeg og har atter detbedste håp. Ak jeg har gjort en slik flugtfør og er atter vendt tilbake til byen. Ogatter flyktet.
Name me no names for my disease,With uninforming breath;I tell you I am none of these,But homesick unto death —Homesick for hills that I had known,For brooks that I had crossed,...Before I met this flesh and boneAnd followed and was lost… .And though they break my heart at last,Yet name no name of ills.Say only, "Here is where he passed,Seeking again those hills.
If one is to deal with people on a large scale and say what one thinks, how can one avoid melancholy? I don’t admit to being hopeless, though: only the spectacle is a profoundly strange one; and as the current answers don’t do, one has to grope for a new one, and the process of discarding the old, when one is by no means certain what to put in their place, is a sad one.
My sadness is beautiful. It infuses everything I do. It is at the core of my identity and always has been, just as happiness is in some people. I refuse to be told that it's a flaw. I will not mute it with medications for the sake of society. I will hold it close to me and celebrate it rightfully while the rest of the world fails to see it for what it is and it will be their loss.
