The Fate of the Neurotic
A short text
Have you ever had one of those days — one of those weeks even — where even your favourite songs don’t sound the same? When your favourite foods don’t taste the same?
If someone was to read what I so often write, I assume that they would think that I am clinically depressed.
By only examining their poems, I like to imagine that Sylvia Plath or Anne Sexton could have led seemingly normal, happy lives — with their demons being kept a secret to all but their journals. I imagine that their writing was only an outlet for those days or those weeks, those months or even those years. Only a glimpse into how they were really feeling.
The facts naturally dispute this idea. But there is no harm in pretending. Especially, when you think about what the realisation of this reality would mean.
