Melancholic Musings I

“Not seeing oneself and not being seen; ghostly, to myself, and to others non-existent.”

– Martha Gellhorn, from a letter to Betsy Drake feautured in Selected Letters

Awhile now, I’ve been feeling dim, barren, and hopeless. I intended to write, to present you with something feasible to the eye and mind, but for now you’ll have to do with my bitter testimony; with all its errors and ill reproaches. To illustrate the position I feel i’m in, i’ll provide you with the following passage from Сталкер by Tarkovksy:

“What the hell of a writer am I, if I hate writing? If it’s constant torment for me, a painful, shameful occupation, sort of squeezing out haemorrhoids. I used to think that someone would get better because of my books. No, nobody needs me! In two days after I die they’ll start gobbling up someone else. I wanted to change them, but it’s they who’ve changed me, making me in their own image.”

Don’t take me wrong, I love writing;  to use words and bend them to my will. However, I’ve only succeeded in half written trains-of-thoughts, shortly abandoning them after commencing. I haven’t found the strength or courage to continue. As well in my writing as existence. I pause, weep, and get drunk. I fall into a deep, hellish slumber and forget all previous aspirations. When one descends into deep melancholy, all fiery passions extinguish. Now, I felt inclined to write down these despondent thoughts, as I’m three or more glasses of wine deep and had the revelation that maybe, one desolate soul might recognise themselves in what I’ve written. I mourn the aspirations I had, probably still have, and didn’t carry out. I have mastered the skill to uphold a mask in the presence of others. Only when I write, do I dare to show a glimpse of what’s behind it, as my audience is invisible or entirely non-existent. My mind is fixed on the following thought: the people that are invariably convinced of their holiness, are often the most devilish—and I might be the most fiendish of all fiends…

I feel unwell, with a turning stomach from all the wine I’ve consumed. Yet, there is nothing more nauseating than my own mind. The glass of wine I just spilled flows on the table, a deep red hue—very akin to the blood pulsating in my veins.

When I lie in bed, sleep refuses to visit me or tortures me by postponing it’s arrival. During those dark hours, the heavy feeling of sorrow and loneliness intensifies. I’ve become a ghost from the past in other people’s lives.

Confessing this to you, my invisible and unknown reader, will not redeem me…