Sunday, September 14, 2014

Meloncholy


I am not afraid to die.  I am afraid of leaving my babies behind.  Seriously, who am I?
I have prided myself.  My babies will be fine.  This gives me comfort knowing they will be fine.  Isn't it what we want?  Healthy, Beautiful, Happy, Independent, Successful Children
and Grandchildren.  It is what I want.  I love you.





The so-called ‘psychotically depressed’ person who tries to kill herself doesn’t do so out of quote hopelessness or any abstract conviction that life’s assets and debits do not square. And surely not because death seems suddenly appealing. The person in whom Its invisible agony reaches a certain unendurable level will kill herself the same way a trapped person will eventually jump from the window of a burning high-rise. Make no mistake about people who leap from burning windows. Their terror of falling from a great height is still just as great as it would be for you or me standing speculatively at the same window just checking out the view; i.e., the fear of falling remains a constant. The variable here is the other terror, the fire’s flames: when the flames get close enough, falling to death becomes the slightly less terrible of two terrors. It’s not desiring the fall; it’s terror of the flames. And yet nobody down on the sidewalk, looking up and yelling ‘Don’t!’ and ‘Hang on!’, can understand the jump. Not really. You’d have to have personally been trapped and felt flames to really understand a terror way beyond falling.  -- Novelist David Foster Wallace