"I attempt from love's sickness to fly in vain / for I am myself my own fever and pain." -Henry Purcell
I do not mean to speak now of love. Rather, I would refer to the matter of running from oneself,
"I am myself my own fever and pain." This means, in Purcell's song, that escape is impossible. But I would add my own meaning, and point out, that if I am a disease, it would be perfectly sensible to try and run from me.
I am nowadays afflicted by a strange form of callous insensitivity. Given, this so called "insensitivity" is touchy and unstable at best, not to mention depressive and anxious. There is, however, a definite element of hardening against emotion, be it a certain kind of emotion. I have distanced myself from myself and others, in a way I can't quite explain, nor fully comprehend.
What I now wish to add, is that there is, perhaps, good cause for my repression. I nearly fear to think it, sometimes, focusing my attention on the act of repression rather than face what I was running from to begin with: Fear, hurt, anger. Emotions I wish neither to feel nor express. Is it any wonder that I chose another way?
And, even given the complicated nature of our reality and our perception, I think I would indeed call it a choice. I can clearly remember things I felt, years ago. The corrosive gnaw of sharp anxiety, the crushing pain of disappointment, the thrill of love, the burn of anger, anger unheeded. The anger has remained. The rest have been shunned, dulled, pushed down and away. I remember doing this. I remember, between myself and I, the decision "I will no longer be anxious," and "I must stop loving this person now." And I did. Disregarding what I lost in the bargain, I succeeded. And yet, what I lost cannot be disregarded.
Am I ready to return and face those things from which I have been running? Do I wish to?
This is the closing line of Purcell's song:
"...For love has more power and less mercy than fate / to make us seek ruin and love those that hate."
"I am myself my own fever and pain." This means, in Purcell's song, that escape is impossible. But I would add my own meaning, and point out, that if I am a disease, it would be perfectly sensible to try and run from me.
I am nowadays afflicted by a strange form of callous insensitivity. Given, this so called "insensitivity" is touchy and unstable at best, not to mention depressive and anxious. There is, however, a definite element of hardening against emotion, be it a certain kind of emotion. I have distanced myself from myself and others, in a way I can't quite explain, nor fully comprehend.
What I now wish to add, is that there is, perhaps, good cause for my repression. I nearly fear to think it, sometimes, focusing my attention on the act of repression rather than face what I was running from to begin with: Fear, hurt, anger. Emotions I wish neither to feel nor express. Is it any wonder that I chose another way?
And, even given the complicated nature of our reality and our perception, I think I would indeed call it a choice. I can clearly remember things I felt, years ago. The corrosive gnaw of sharp anxiety, the crushing pain of disappointment, the thrill of love, the burn of anger, anger unheeded. The anger has remained. The rest have been shunned, dulled, pushed down and away. I remember doing this. I remember, between myself and I, the decision "I will no longer be anxious," and "I must stop loving this person now." And I did. Disregarding what I lost in the bargain, I succeeded. And yet, what I lost cannot be disregarded.
Am I ready to return and face those things from which I have been running? Do I wish to?
This is the closing line of Purcell's song:
"...For love has more power and less mercy than fate / to make us seek ruin and love those that hate."
No comments:
Post a Comment