Melancholy
I have decided that melancholy is like jealousy. Waste of time. These two emotions are the most time-wasting emotions ever.
What's the point of being melancholic?
It breeds nothingness.
When one is melancholic one cannot do anything more than one needs to do.
Because one lives in one's head. And heart. And nothing comes out into the real world except maybe in the form of song, dance, art or writing (and of course, all melancholic in nature).
Now if one were talented, then I guess it's good news for one's bank account. Although still annoying. If one is not then it's just plain, SICKENING.
And talent aside, do you know what a pain in the ass it is to be the melancholic one's partner/wife/girlfriend/parent/sibling??
Wah liau. I think I rather put lizards down my bra and see how long they take to struggle out from between my tua nene than hang out with melancholic people.
My Chiara will never be melancholic. Or jealous. Because I will show her that there are better things to do with her time. Like twisting a piece of tissue paper and tickling her nostrils with it until she sneezes.
Some random pictures of a non-melancholic existence.
Godmummy-and-Mummy-to-be at Halloween party in Geneva 2003
Chiara and me - taken end of 2004
posted by Tweetymanggis @ 5:18 PM
2 Comments:
John Keats (1795–1821).
Ode on Melancholy
1.
NO, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolfs-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kiss’d
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries, 5
Nor let the beetle, nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul. 10
2.
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose, 15
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes. 20
3.
She dwells with Beauty—Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight 25
Veil’d Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine;
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
thanks for that...it's lovely..whoever you are...
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