#whole purgatory to myself! joyful!

[unluckyadept]

Character Journal Entry

{EASTER SUNDAY, 2021T}

The journey does not end here.

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[It had been a long time since he had properly written. A very, very long time. So much had happened. It wasn’t just A long story—it was SEVERAL long stories.

But he had to at least try. Had to put in the effort, during this lull, this brief respite.]

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It is something I have had to remind myself, now. More often than before.

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[He had one particular person in mind as he reflected. If only he had proper time for a letter….

Maybe he could draft one as he wrote down his thoughts.]

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How easily a man’s fortunes may change! It was not too long ago that I looked out to a new sunrise, a life of my own choosing.

My friends and I were well. Our families were well. Our lives were secure, and our allies were prospering. The common man could travel freely, secure in the knowledge that he need only concern himself with the {[business/matter/reason]} that drives his journey—others maintained security within the towns and across the countryside, and would maintain order and enforce justice should lawlessness prey upon him.

Everything was so secure, in fact, that I no longer held it a concern. Yes, even then, the tension was growing—and the Prideful summer season of the Colosso was a month of (what felt like torturous, at the time, before we learned what it was like when it’s even worse) hatred and disdain, and unpleasant as usual—but I was certain that with the sunrise, peace could be made possible by reaching out in joyful prosperity to the common human nature that is within all people.

It was not so long ago that all was right in our worlds, and we eagerly climbed out of the dust of mere survival and into the sunlight of true Living.

Not so long ago, indeed, that all was well for us in the world.

We had all we could ask for; health, family, friends, purpose, security, justice, fair recompense, resources, joy, peace, and—for the first time in an incredibly long time, on my part—

Hope.

It seemed, in those golden days, that against all odds—against all I’d been told, all that I’ve suffered, all that holds contempt for me, despite all my previous perpetual misfortunes, the repeated betrayals, the years of futile struggling!—against all odds, at last, all was well and we could all begin to know a life of true Joy in a happy and prosperous peace.

The years of darkness were finally behind us, and in that hour—brief as it was, and all too quickly and most painfully stolen—it was all worth it.

It had all been worth it.

To experience such true peace, surrounded by blessing, unburdened by darkness—

Oh, it was so, so worth it!

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[…And then it was gone.

His heart ached as he sat in silence and sorrow, thinking back on how it started to fall apart, piece by piece.

Worse, and worse,

and worse

and worse

and worse

and worse

and worse and worse and worse and WORSE until at last, it had stuck so incredibly deep that it could only distinctly get worse if the walls continued to close in and suffocate him entirely.

It was so profoundly and inexplicably terrible that it sounded like a wild story written by an inexperienced Writer, too intent on giving suffering to the main characters that they failed to appreciate how it muddied the main plot and was too arbitrary to be realistic.

If he weren’t currently LIVING through this Purgatorial suffering, he wouldn’t believe it were even possible to be “realistic” for things to go so suddenly, so terribly, and so thoroughly wrong.

Each day was a year, now. His wretched and arduous labor was compounded by the yawning abyss that was the hopelessness of seeing no end in sight to such misery.

How quaint of poetic irony to strike him in such a way, that he was truly blind of the world as much as he was (and in fact, because he was) blind of true Hope.

Oh, he knew what it “looked” like, well enough. He knew he had once held such confidence and serenity, and that it had been worth it, to press on until his burdens were lifted. Abstractly, he did believe—within a given set of necessary requirements for it to be possible—that it could happen again.

He knew it existed. Logic dictated it was still true.

But he could no longer feel it. 

Not in its true state.

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What is a man’s life, to toil away, and have tyrants destroy all he worked for? How easy it is to be so burdened by suffering under hateful tyrants that such a mindset drains the will to live.

Even I ask myself this, in my own iteration.

For mine is a terrible fate, a burden one would not wish on any man. And indeed, my whole life has been filled with sorrow and pain. All my joy has been fleeting in comparison. And it seems to me now, in this hour, as our enemies close in on us once more… that what little good I have managed to do will be meaningless. Soon to be forgotten, even sooner to be lied about, and already been robbed of any credit for what people DO acknowledge as positive.

But there was something that a good friend said, shortly before I lost

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[He stopped there, feeling the terrible weight on his chest—from all the tension, all the strain— making it hard to breathe.

And he clenched his jaw, trying to fight off the inclination to be overcome by the raw pain that still ran deep.

For this was the message he was getting at, after all, wasn’t it?

And yet a single tear still managed to escape and mar his face, betraying the lonely sorrow that persisted despite an adult appreciation of reality and a mature acceptance of the inevitability.

Taking a moment to close his eyes and let it pass, he took in a deep breath and let out a sigh before he continued.]

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It is not Man’s fate to have to rely on the whims of the world to determine whether or not existence will have meaning.

The journey does not end with losing everything over time, until at last, even the connection to this world is permanently severed.

It does not end in sorrow, in loss, in suffering, in misery, having long forgotten even starlight in the grim darkness of years without a sunrise.

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[And his heart was less burdened now, reminding himself of this fact.]

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Did not our ancestors toil away in thankless drudgery, generation after generation, subject to the greed of entitled ignorance, before we ever came to know those moments of prosperity and peace?

If we endure, if we stay true, then if nothing else, those who come after shall benefit from the good we have done and the foundations we placed—even if it had been torn asunder again and again, still, able to pick up the pieces—and build the world we wish to see.

And so we must remain strong, we must continue, for it is a certainty that there is good in all people, and it is never too late for the true repentance of past evils to contribute to a genuine reconciliation and peace.

For how many could honestly say that there is naught in their life that they regretted so deeply, so truly, that they were moved to become a better person? When we learn from our mistakes and desire to do better—to do good—then we do indeed turn aside from the darkness and work to build a better future.

How, then, can we say so readily that it is impossible for others to do the same? Are we not all equal?

We are not identical, but that is not necessary to be equal in dignity.

Therefore, let us resist the despair that “they” will never change, and are dead set on hatred and misery.

It is writ upon every heart this indelible truth: just as we know our hopes, dreams, dramas, sorrows, anguish, labors, friendships, enmities, joys, and rewards of time and effort…

…so does every human soul. I refuse to accept the notion that judgment must be made upon entire groups for the sins of individuals. And it is unfounded, cruel, unjust, and bafflingly pointless to treat people poorly for the sins—real or imagined or generalized—of their ancestors, let alone the ancestors of people who are judged to be similar in appearance.

So too do I reject the notion that it is impossible for things to change.

Everything is impossible if no one puts forth the effort to make any given “impossibility” a reality. 

Such true Joy and Hope as I had known was indeed a prosperity such as been admired in ancient ballad and inherited dream.

If I had known it then, against all odds, having healed from the wounds and sickliness of years of suffering—

If I did indeed live long enough to Live, however briefly, then might it not be possible again?

The journey does not end here, my friends.

This is not the end.

Darkness does not have the final say—nor is anyone barred from true change, such as drives one to grow strong, work hard, and do good in this world.

For it is not indeed about whether we knew luxury, in the end of this life. Nay, rather, what lingers, what is carried over, is this—

We live to build the world around us. Each labor we undertake that adheres to the paths of virtue provides the resources used to build a better world. As we continue down this road along the shoreline, yearning for those who have already taken the road to dawn, we know this—

The good others have done for us has brightened our lives and brought us higher out of the darkness and into the sunlight, and has had meaning.

So, too, do our good deeds impact others.

The journey does not end here, my friends…

This is where it BEGINS.

—Felix

[kaytlinnoel]

Is it strange that I feel the need to publicly thank an anonymous everyone for supporting and believing in me? I wasn’t very public about this, for obvious reasons, but I relapsed at the start of this year following the hardest semester of school I’d ever had and a breakup. But, thankfully... the rest of this year has been one of the most beautiful and surprising and even joyful (?) times of my life.

I had so many friends willing to check in on me for days on end, therapists who still send me cards to make sure I’m vibing (Karen, I’m convinced you’re an actual angel), new therapists who challenge me, and now new friends to “do live with” even though I despise that phrase. I have a job that I love that allows me to live on my own and I thought being alone would be soul crushing, but it’s only been liberating. I have enough money for books and enough time to read them.

I feel like I’ve found more of myself in 6 months that I have in 6 years. This is also the longest I’ve been single (ok ok- I’ve been dating around, but I’m not committed in a formal sense) which is strange but also so emotionally steadying? Being open to the changes in what I think I want in a partner and from a relationship feels like unlocking a rusty chest containing all the dead skeletons of the negative thought distortions you’ve ever had around love and setting them on fire one by one til all that’s left is an empty box you get to fill with lovely things and people. No one and nothing can ever force themself in there again without your permission because you’re an adult now and you know about boundaries and red flags and how to freely give yourself permission to love someone who doesn’t love you back.

I don’t want to jinx myself, but things finally feel... normal. Ever since my parents’ divorce, my life has been this all-consuming whirlwind battering me back and forth between relationships and living situations and mental illness and degrees and for once, most of those things are stable. I don’t have assignments due (outside of my stupid documentation). I get that this is privileged, but I’m so f r e a k i n g grateful that I may never have to type another document in APA format.

Trauma has made my life feel unbearable for so long, but this whole self-agency thing is, as the kids say, cool af. It’s like little bits of my soul finally feel safe enough to call my body home again. I know I have so much more to learn and write and experience, but going into my 24th birthday is like the award ceremony after fighting the war. I never thought I’d live this long due to my MI, but here I am. Continuing to create and learn.

If you’re reading this, thanks for being here, too. Not sure what your life looks like right now, but I hope you have hope and know that your individual expression of life is unique and necessary. I read recently that we don’t get a do-over life and this is all there is. I often feel like I’m in purgatory now because I’m always yearning for the next thing and wishing away the present... but y’all, the present is kinda cool. 10/10 recommend you checking it out sometime.

❤️

[elisaenglish]

“I must move myself first, before I move others,” Sylvia Plath writes in her journal of September 1958. Although mired in the purgatorial torment of her art diminished beneath the stagnant weight of marital domesticity, I feel less drawn to the obvious contemporaneous comparisons with The Feminine Mystique and more in need of that musing at the root of all creative things, first alluded to over two millennia beforehand when Socrates declared, “Let him who would move the world, first move himself.”

Shift. Change. Progress. Paradoxically an outward act and an inward process – and God, the necessity of it. And me, as I always am at this time of year, gathering the words, measuring the hours in that unconscious way of sifting the lines of this life – and maybe the one that could arise – by harnessing those seeds of inspiration.

It’s never quite the same, one late summer to the next, and I don’t want to write great screeds of my own when the point is percolation. Something for me, but left here too for your contemplation. And no, not Plath – but Tchaikovsky and his 1878 letter to his benefactress, Nadezhda von Meck. Seventy years back from Plath, and just shy of the same between Plath and now, and me and you, and it’s all the fucking same. Or maybe it’s my substitute for madness.

Who knows? But we link, and I deliquesce into the movement of it:

“How much joy your letter brought me today, my precious Nadezhda Filaretovna. How immeasurably happy I was that the symphony pleased you, that when hearing it you experienced the feelings with which I was suffused when I wrote it, and that the music sank into your heart.

You asked me whether there is a definite programme to this symphony? Usually when this question is put to me about a symphonic work my answer is: none! Indeed, this is a difficult question to answer. How can one put into words the intangible sensations which one experiences when writing an instrumental work without a specific subject? This is a purely lyrical process. This is, fundamentally, an unburdening of the soul in music, with its essence distilled into sounds, in the same manner in which a lyrical poet expresses himself in verse. The only difference is that music has much more powerful means and a more subtle language with which to express thousands of different emotions and frames of mind. Usually the seed of a future work will manifest itself suddenly in unexpected ways. If the soil is fertile, i.e. if there is a disposition to work, the seed will take root with remarkable power and swiftness, allowing buds to emerge from the soil, followed by leaves, branches and, ultimately, flowers. I cannot define the creative process without resorting to metaphors. The difficulty lies in the fact that the seed requires favourable conditions in which to germinate. Everything else happens by itself. It would be futile for me to try to express to you in words the immeasurable bliss of all the feelings that seize me when a main idea appears, and when it begins to flourish into a particular form. I forget everything and become literally like a madman, everything within me shakes and pulses, with barely time to scribble out my sketches as one idea runs into another... Sometimes in the midst of this magical process, some external stimulus will jolt me out of this somnambuilistic state. Somebody might call, a servant enter, or a clock will strike and remind me that I need to go out on business... Such breaks are inexpressibly burdensome. Sometimes inspiration will fly away for quite a while. It's necessary to search for it, and often in vain. It is frequently necessary to fall back on an altogether cold, rational and technical working method. Perhaps it is because of this that the greatest masters have moments with an absence of organic flair, where the seams within the whole appear artificially sewn together. But it is impossible for it to be otherwise. If the condition of the artist's soul called inspiration that I am attempting to describe to you were to be continued without interruption, it should be impossible to live for a single day. The strings would snap, and the instrument should be dashed into smithereens! Only one thing is necessary: that the principal idea and the general outlines of all the movements did not come about by striving, but rather that they present themselves as a result of that supernatural, incomprehensible, and unfathomable force that is called inspiration.

But I have digressed on an aside without answering your question. In our symphony there is a programme, i.e. it is possible to express in words what it is trying to say, and to you, and only to you, I am able and willing to explain the meaning both of the whole and of the separate movements. Of course, I can do this only in general terms.

The introduction is the seed of the whole symphony, undoubtedly the main idea. This is Fate: this is that fateful force which prevents the impulse to happiness from attaining its goal, which jealously ensures that peace and happiness shall not be complete and unclouded, which hangs above the head like the sword of Damocles, unwaveringly, constantly poisoning the soul. It is an invincible force that can never be overcome — merely endured, hopelessly.

The bleak and hopeless feelings grow stronger and intense. Is it not better to escape from reality and to immerse oneself in dreams. Oh joy! Out of nowhere a sweet and gentle day-dream appears. Some blissful, radiant human image hurries by and beckons us away. How wonderful! How distant the obsessive first theme of the allegro now sounds! Gradually the soul is enveloped by daydreams. Everything gloomy and joyless is forgotten. Here it is, here it is — happiness!

No! These were daydreams, and Fate wakes us from them. And thus all life is an unbroken alternation of harsh reality with fleeting dreams and visions of happiness... No haven exists... Drift upon that sea until it engulfs and submerges you in its depths. That, roughly, is the programme of the first movement.

The second movement of the symphony expresses another aspect of sadness. This is that melancholy feeling which comes in the evening when, weary from one's toil, one sits alone with a book — but it falls from the hand. There come a whole host of memories. It is sad that so much is now in the past, albeit pleasant to recall one's youth. Both regretting the past, and yet not wishing to begin life over again. Life is wearisome. It is pleasant to rest and look around. Memories abound! Happy moments when the young blood boiled, and life was satisfying. There are also painful memories, irreconcilable losses. All this is now somewhere far distant. It is both sad, yet somehow sweet to be immersed in the past.

The third movement expresses no specific feeling. This is whimsical arabesques, vague images which can sweep past the imagination after drinking a little wine and feeling the first phases of intoxication. The spirit is neither cheerful, nor sad. Thinking about nothing in particular, giving free rein to the imagination, which somehow begins to paint strange pictures... Amid these memories there suddenly comes a picture of drunken peasants and a street song... Then, somewhere in the distance, a military procession passes. These are completely incoherent images which sweep through the head as one falls asleep. They have nothing in common with reality; they are strange, wild, and incoherent.

The fourth movement. If within yourself you find no reasons for joy, then look at others. Go out among the people. See how they can enjoy themselves, surrendering themselves wholeheartedly to joyful feelings. Picture the festive merriment of ordinary people. Hardly have you managed to forget yourself and to be carried away by the spectacle of the joys of others, than irrepressible fate appears again and reminds you of yourself. But others do not care about you, and they have not noticed that you are solitary and sad. O, how they are enjoying themselves! How happy they are that all their feelings are simple and straightforward. Reproach yourself, and do not say that everything in this world is sad. Joy is a simple but powerful force. Rejoice in the rejoicing of others. To live is still possible.

That, my dear friend, is all I can explain to you about the symphony. Of course, this is vague and incomplete. But an intrinsic quality of instrumental music is that it does not yield to detailed analysis. Where words end, music begins, as Heine remarked.

It's already late. I'm not writing anything to you about Florence at this time, except that its very, very pleasant memories will stay with me for my whole life. At the end of next week, that is, around the 24th (by our style), I am thinking of going to Switzerland, where I intend to live quietly for the whole of March, gradually writing compositions in a variety of small forms. And so, when you receive this letter, my address shall once again be: Clarens, Canton de Vaud, Villa Richelieu.

Thank you, my dear, for today's letter. I still have had no word from my Moscow friends. I will write to you about my opinion of them in detail.

P. Tchaikovsky

P. S. Just as I was about to put the letter in an envelope, I re-read it and was horrified at the incoherence and inadequacy of the programme I sent to you. This is the first time in my life that I have attempted to translate musical thoughts and images into words, and I could not manage to do this adequately. I was severely depressed last winter when writing the symphony, and it serves as a faithful echo of what I was experiencing. But it is known as an echo. How can it be translated into a clear and coherent succession of words? I do not know how to do that. I have already forgotten so much. They remain general recollections of the passions and mysterious feelings that I experienced. I am very, very curious about what my Moscow friends will say. Farewell.”

[vile-allure]

help me understand

I do not understand why when all is going so well, i still have a cloud over my head. I can be in such a stable place, with friends surrounding me, kicking schools but, and the loving gaze of my beautiful dog. Yet still, i feel hopeless. I feel misplaced. I feel like i do not belong and should need to escape. My mind begins to wander to possible ways to end the sorrow and misery. These come in forms of self-bettering ideals as well as self-destructive behaviors. From deciding to go to the gym, to researching how to kill myself with carbon monoxide, I am all over the place. It is when these thoughts come racing that I am most afraid. I am not afraid of the outside world...but i am afraid of me. I become afraid of my capacity and my will to keep on pushing. I get over these humps and can see a bright light at the top of the hill, and all of a sudden I feel as if it is going to be ok, that I have a bright future ahead of me and I am experiencing all this pain now because there is so much joy to come to me in the future. This may last for an hour, to a week, to a month, but it always fades, and the darks feelings come back and power over and such the possibility of a joyful future. I am frightened by this. I am so scared of when I wake up and want to die. I am so afraid of my own mind and how it turns on me. I love myself but at the same time i want to harm myself. I am a paradox. I am stuck in limbo. I am hypocritical. And I am a beautiful disaster. I cannot care about what others think because I don't even care about what I think. I am so afraid that one day I will give in to the thoughts, that i will be so weak and so fed up and lonely that I feel it is the only choice, but then I also feel that maybe i did die one of the times I attempted suicide, and this is my punishment for doing such a selfish act. Maybe that time in france when i slit my wrist, and blood started gushing.. maybe I just passed out, and made-up the whole story of it all being ok, and from that point until now, i have been in my own personal purgatory. I will never know, but I do know i have not felt the same since. I am afraid of what i am capable of. i am afraid of my own thoughts. the negative thoughts are so overpowering at times that I do not feel in control, i feel as if i am possessed because I no longer make the decision, because it makes me. I don't want to cut..i don't do it for any other reason than, the demons in my head told me to torture myself, and I thought maybe if i listened it would bleed them out and they would leave my alone.

I am frightened when all is well. When I am out with friends having a dandy time, and all of a sudden my mood drops and a weight drops onto my slouched shoulders, pushing deep into the ground but not establishing any roots. I feel heavy and incapacitated. At those times I don’t understand why my mind would want to behave in such a manner. Why now? Why me? 

I have developed an appreciation for those low points. I feel safety at the bottom. As much as i fear being at the bottom of the world alone, it feels safe because it is where i spend most of my time. Maybe that is why i like to spend so much time alone, because thats what i think i deserve.

People have been nothing but disappointments to me. I meet them, start to develop a relationship, get to know them on a deeper emotional level, at that point I see things about them that I love and that I hate. I hate to say i hate things but i always will. and that hatred usually overpowers the things i love. it results in a quiet cut of connection. a distance from others.

I want to be alone from the world. I want to run with the wolves. I do not want to associate with the human race because i do not feel as if i am one of them. I want to pretend and blend in but it is like a bean in a pile of rice, i will never be the same as them.

My heart has become as cold as ice. My emotions frozen during some place and time in the past. All I am able to feel is discomfort, annoyance, anger, drunken mischief, and i occasionally get a glimpse of laughter. I emphasize for people when i should not, and do not when I should. My capacity to be a completely loving and endearing friend and companion has vanished, or maybe was not there to begin with.

I am lost within myself. I am afraid of me, but I am also afraid of the me i want to be.