The Lethe

I’ve been feeling melancholic lately. It’s the 2nd of February 2023 if that matters for anything later. I’ve never considered myself a fearful person. It’s been true, but I haven’t thought of myself that way. Especially these days, I think that I’ve left most of my regrets behind and my anxieties to a minimum. I suppose that’s a pretty unbelievable and high-horse stance for a nineteen-year-old but it feels true for me. The times in my life where I felt most fearless were the ones where I didn’t fear death. When I had nothing to lose, I felt that I could lose anything without any second thought. That, of course, wasn’t true. It was those times in my life where I was the most fearful. I would waste hours each night staring at my ceiling dreading the next day or reimagining the conversations of the previous ones. But that’s one thing they don’t tell you about getting better. You start to lose your other fears but that pesky ol’ fear of death only grows. I read a blog post today of someone talking about how their recently dead dad. They said at the end, to tell someone you love that you love them and mean it. It made me realise that I don’t really do that anymore. Telling someone I love them, I mean. I think that was the final puzzle piece in the case of the haunting melancholia for me. I talked to one friend about our desires for relationships, the emotional fulfilment of a person to talk to. I talked to another about the sense of grief in creative downturns. I think I’ve just been a less loving person for a while on the whole. Less openly at least. I’m more fearful, more reserved. I hide nothing, yet offer less. Maybe I should change that. I think it’s all crashed down on me after a while.

But I’m glad I’ve lived to enjoy the little fears. Beautiful story is out there in the world.