“I feel so blessed and happy to be alive,” she said, as she continued with a blissful monologue filled with ellipses and superlatives.
It could seem, on the surface, that after her endless harrowing journey, she had come out renewed on this other side.
Then again, maybe not. Actually, the uncharacteristically ebullient comments make me think that probably not.
Then again, maybe not. Actually, the uncharacteristically ebullient comments make me think that probably not.
She was depressed for so long, with clouds always hanging over her head, that now with spring around, she has too much light, too much joy and she might just not know what to do with the contentment. She knows it is beautiful but there's no comfort in that happiness no more.
For too long she felt everything deeply even when living vicariously trough the lives of people that meant something to her. In recent years she found her heart exposed outside her chest making it difficult to mask all the scars and little holes in it. In the end she enjoyed making love to her demons, assuming a direct correlation between anguish and artistic value. She found herself nurturing her agony and grief.
"We could have saved each other and we will always belong to the ages", she kept whispering to herself, over and over again, with an hyper-romantic perspective that would make the average person flail and get lost in a swirl of fantasy and disappointment. But for her, these dreamer instincts seem to breed a specific sort of rigor.
She had been captivated by the hyperbole of her own heartbreak. To her, love didn't die by itself. She would have never allowed it. Love had to die of illness and hurt, of blindness, of doubts and despair, until there were no more wishes left for shooting stars.
"Just like a dream
Oh come, come back to me
And I'll still believe
If you stay baby, stay with me
Darling I beg, come back to me
Just like a dream."
