Jerry | Los Angeles I do not like my state of mind; I’m bitter, querulous, unkind. I hate my legs, I hate my hands, I do not yearn for lovelier lands. I dread the dawn’s recurrent light; I hate to go to bed at night. I snoot at simple, earnest folk. I cannot take the gentlest joke. I find no peace in paint or type. My world is but a lot of tripe. I’m disillusioned, empty-breasted. For what I think, I’d be arrested. I am not sick, I am not well. My quondam dreams are shot to hell. My soul is crushed, my spirit sore; I do not like me any more. I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse. I ponder on the narrow house. I shudder at the thought of men…. I’m due to fall in love again.
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I want to explain how exhausted I am. Even in my dreams. How I wake up tired. How I’m being drowned by some kind of black wave.
Elizabeth Wurtzel, Prozac Nation
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Meteyard implies that being in love inevitably means being hurt: if Love beats his wings, they will be torn by the thorns twined around them. However, the figure of Hope, her green robe suggesting spring, new shoots and new life, urges optimism and not despair.
Hope Comforting Love in Bondage, 1901, Sidney Harold Meteyard
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There is a terrible emptiness in me, an indifference that hurts.
Albert Camus
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