Aestheticism in Melancholy
From the searing prose of Sophocles and Aeschylus to the sorrowful intricacies intertwined between the writing of the Bronte sisters, classical literature regarding a sense of despair has been interpreted by readers for centuries through a lens of beauty in futility. To feel the mental turmoil of Raskolnikov in Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky as he yields his second murder, to sense the stinging bullet in your brain as you absorb yourself into descriptions Jay Gatsby laying dead in his pool, interpretations of the cavernous hole left in one's heart after reading these works as beauty has been regarded as profoundly controversial for decades. To read a work of literature is to intertwine your brain with the author; to feel each sense of despair, a raw gutting sense of sadness spilled from the author's soul and mind to you. What are your thoughts on the romanticism of depressing literature?
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For old times sake is actually such a heartbreaking and beautiful sentiment. Like, let’s do it for the love that used to be here. It is reason enough.
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it’s me and my 31 ao3 tabs against the world ❤️
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“But you dont seem like someone with depression”
Sorry, let me just:
Stańczyk by Jan Matejko, 1862
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That feminine urge this, masculine urge that ….
Yeah, okay , cool
But what about the Lunar urge to ritualistically disappear every couple of weeks ?
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"But I wasn't crying because I was sad. I guess I was crying because we had nowhere else to go, no choice but to go on living in this world. Crying because we had no other world to choose, and crying at everything before us, everything around us."
– Mieko Kawakami, "Heaven"
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she deserves midnight dances, playlists about how she makes you feel, neck kisses, trips to classic museum, and heartfelt conversation, the world
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everyday I wonder,
how much longer can I do this ??
and then the next day passes,
and the next, and the next, and the next,
and all of a sudden it’s been three years.
and I am still, just sitting here, wondering,
how much longer can I do this ??
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"There are times, dearest, when I am convinced I am unfit for any human relationship.
Franz Kafka, Letters to Felice
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#14
I still remember how painful that night was. How tired my eyes and heart were. I still remember how I almost ran out of breath while I was crying and how I was trying to stop the noise I could make. I will never forget how difficult it was for me.
I will never forget that pain.
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