Melancholia
I have sunk again. To
depths of despair I hadn’t known I could reach.
There were, of course, submersions before. But always shallow. Always short.
This plunge has proven not so easily fought. And, I confess, I didn’t really try. Rather, I sought it, a masochistic pleasure
in this exercise of self-loathing. I
remember once feeling invincible. Impervious
to all things external. Reading Marcus
Aurelius, delving into stoicism. And I
am now so bewildered as to how that seemingly incorruptible state proved so
transitory. And I wonder if it was
deliberate. If I was so suspicious of
that very security, that I sabotaged it.
I am the Queen of Self-Destruction.
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