It is with an increasing sense of disturbance that I have found myself paralleled to a figure of our history. She was such a pivotal woman in her era; choosing to remain single and unaffected by the standards of a society she never truly felt she belonged.
Emily Dickinson has written with such morbid verve; relating and retelling moments of sadness, depressive states of antiquity, and altogether loathe for a life she struggled to live. Yes, in my high school days, Dickinson was a guest in my pantheon of writers. I accepted her disturbed countenance as I felt she and I shared this quality. Her ability to express clearly the pain and desolation rampaging through her heart, soul, and mind was something I had yet to experience on my own. I wanted to write in such a manner to steal the breath of my readers; that they would be so shocked, overcome by the words before them. Their eyes could not devour the words fast enough.
Here I am in my revelation. I suppose in an awkward sense I have channeled Ms. Dickinson. I would like to believe she is frowning down upon me, and not in the sense of disappointment, but simply because it was her nature. An unhappy soul who died just as much an unhappy soul. I fear my own life's path should follow such a similar route, though her's was laid long before mine ever began. Do I have the strength to fight such an abysmal depression which threatens to suck me in; like that of a monstrous black hole, devouring everything in it's vicinity? I simply don't know.
In conversation with a dear friend, it occurred to me that not only do I feel so Dickinson like, but I truly am unsure of whether happiness can ever come from these fingertips. Am I capable of writing with a lust in reference to happiness in such a way as I do with sadness? I don't believe I even comprehend what happiness would look like on paper. How would the words flow? Which ones would express the right feelings? Do I even have any experiences dealing with happiness to draw inspiration from? I'm afraid, rather terrified, to discover I do not.
My existence upon this earth can not end paralleled to Ms. Dickinson. I forbid it. Am I strong enough to follow this through? I fear I am naturally a pessimistic human with slight tendencies to subjective happiness. I wear my facade well. Only in moments of overwhelming odds does it break and I falter. I show a side of me which is rare, untuned, and quite frankly, rough. Not so much in terms of unkind or rude; rather, a reference to the emotional state of which my inner self usually adopts 90 percent of the time.
So here I am, broken and forlorn, yet oddly optimistic. We are to learn from others mistakes, yes? So, Emily Dickinson, dear, you may continue to habituate my writers pantheon, but you are no longer allowed to influence my life so drastically. You must behave yourself and sit prettily as I dally with my writing soul. No, no, you aren't to comment. I'm entirely capable of expressing my negative self. I need another writer to step forward now and tutor me in the art of positive reflection. Any takers? No? I see then. I do believe it's time for a writer search. My pantheon has grown rather dim.
Emily Dickinson has written with such morbid verve; relating and retelling moments of sadness, depressive states of antiquity, and altogether loathe for a life she struggled to live. Yes, in my high school days, Dickinson was a guest in my pantheon of writers. I accepted her disturbed countenance as I felt she and I shared this quality. Her ability to express clearly the pain and desolation rampaging through her heart, soul, and mind was something I had yet to experience on my own. I wanted to write in such a manner to steal the breath of my readers; that they would be so shocked, overcome by the words before them. Their eyes could not devour the words fast enough.
Here I am in my revelation. I suppose in an awkward sense I have channeled Ms. Dickinson. I would like to believe she is frowning down upon me, and not in the sense of disappointment, but simply because it was her nature. An unhappy soul who died just as much an unhappy soul. I fear my own life's path should follow such a similar route, though her's was laid long before mine ever began. Do I have the strength to fight such an abysmal depression which threatens to suck me in; like that of a monstrous black hole, devouring everything in it's vicinity? I simply don't know.
In conversation with a dear friend, it occurred to me that not only do I feel so Dickinson like, but I truly am unsure of whether happiness can ever come from these fingertips. Am I capable of writing with a lust in reference to happiness in such a way as I do with sadness? I don't believe I even comprehend what happiness would look like on paper. How would the words flow? Which ones would express the right feelings? Do I even have any experiences dealing with happiness to draw inspiration from? I'm afraid, rather terrified, to discover I do not.
My existence upon this earth can not end paralleled to Ms. Dickinson. I forbid it. Am I strong enough to follow this through? I fear I am naturally a pessimistic human with slight tendencies to subjective happiness. I wear my facade well. Only in moments of overwhelming odds does it break and I falter. I show a side of me which is rare, untuned, and quite frankly, rough. Not so much in terms of unkind or rude; rather, a reference to the emotional state of which my inner self usually adopts 90 percent of the time.
So here I am, broken and forlorn, yet oddly optimistic. We are to learn from others mistakes, yes? So, Emily Dickinson, dear, you may continue to habituate my writers pantheon, but you are no longer allowed to influence my life so drastically. You must behave yourself and sit prettily as I dally with my writing soul. No, no, you aren't to comment. I'm entirely capable of expressing my negative self. I need another writer to step forward now and tutor me in the art of positive reflection. Any takers? No? I see then. I do believe it's time for a writer search. My pantheon has grown rather dim.
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