(I stopped watching Grey's Anatomy a long time ago because I think it jumped the shark with Izzy's love-making ghost à la Ghost, but that! right now! Still, I'm glad I can find it in me to laugh about the fact that I've come across those screenshots on a teenagers's tumblr blog and many more like those, that I feel I can relate to, which once again brings me to this conclusion: I'm a late (emo) teenager haha.)
I don't know what weird nostalgic-melancholic wave has hit me again, but I've been going through some old little nothings of mine and abandoned journals, fully aware that by doing so I can only fuel my depressive mood. Add that to listening way too much to Jay-Jay Johanson and you've got yourself an emotional sabotage.
|from a letter I never sent|
Does the reader, remembering what was said some pages back, care to ask how I answered these letters: whether under the dry, stinting check of Reason, or according to the full, liberal impulse of Feeling?
To speak the truth, I compromised matters; I served two masters: I bowed the knee in the house of Rimmon, and lifted the heart at another shrine. I wrote to these letters two answers - one for my own relief, the other for Graham's perusal.
To begin with: Feeling and I turned Reason out of doors, drew against her bar and bolt, then we sat down, spread our paper, dipped in the ink an eager pen, and, with deep enjoyment, poured out our sincere heart. When we had done - when two sheets were covered with the language of a strongly-adherent affection, a rooted and active gratitude - (once, for all, in this parenthesis, I disclaim, with the utmost scorn, every suspicion of what are called "warmer feelings:" women do not entertain such "warmer feelings" where, from the commencement, through the whole progress of an acquaintance, they have never once been cheated of the conviction that to do so would be to commit a mortal absurdity: nobody ever launches into Love unless he has seen or dreamed the rising of Hope's star over Love's troubled waters) - when, then, I had given expression to a closely-clinging and deeply-honouring attachment - an attachment that wanted to attract to itself and take into its own lot all that was painful in the destiny of its object; that would, if it could, have absorbed and conducted away all storms and lightnings from an existence viewed with a passion of solicitude - then, just at that moment, the doors of my heart would shake, bolt and bar would yield, Reason would leap in, vigurous and revengeful, snatch the full sheets, erase, tear up, re-write, fold, seal, direct, and send a terse, curt missive of a page. She did right.
- Charlotte Brontë, Villette
Unfortunately, Reason never re:writes my letters (emails). I'm afraid all my nervousness, insecurities, and blurry mental patterns transpire into the emails I write. To whomever. And I hate it that even in writing I can't manage to remain somewhat composed.
* The fact that I can still enjoy stuff reassures me that I'm not a clinical case, not yet anyhow - I'm loving Circuital, the new My Morning Jacket album. Go listen to it!