Starting to write something about dichotomy or eutrophic mind(fuck).
It’s easier to describe myself with things I am not. I’m not…a bunch of great things. I’m not YET few other. I hope so. But I’m quite unease when time comes to define myself with positive things.
The more I live, the more I feel relevant to describe myself as a real “dilettante”. I’m an art lover, I’m trying hard not to be only superficial about it, but always fail. Years before (i.e. when I was hardly into melancholia and depression) I used to try. To draw. To write. A lot. All alone in my boarding school room. Talking to the trees.
I’m not that person no more. Not saying that I am worst, or better. Not this girl, anymore.
I cherish this past me. I’m afraid of the future myself. Trying to deal with what I am now.
I’d like to let the ending words of this entry to my dear Guy de Maupassant, in La Chevelure (one of my favorite short story of this writer):
Le passé m’attire, le présent m’effraie parce que l’avenir c’est la mort. Je regrette tout ce qui s’est fait, je pleure tous ceux qui ont vécu; je voudrais arrêter le temps, arrêter l’heure. Mais elle va, elle va, elle passe, elle me prend de seconde en seconde un peu de moi pour le néant de demain. Et je ne revivrai jamais.
Adieu celles d’hier. Je vous aime.
(the title of this story is “A tress of hair”)
The past attracts me, the present terrifies me because the future means death. I regret all that has gone by. I mourn all who have lived; I should like to check time, to stop the clock. But time goes, it goes, it passes, it takes from me each second a little of myself for the annihilation of to-morrow. And I shall never live again.
Farewell, ye women of yesterday. I love you!
The strangest thing is that fact : I’m not afraid about getting old.