Yesterday was Valentine’s day. A day to celebrate love and your loved ones. I thought it would be easy for me to commemorate it by writing my feelings down and sharing them with my readers. But first I woke up with a terrible headache. I hadn’t slept the night before, seeing all the advertisements on TV, on the internet, in various shops. And secondly, the more I thought about it, the more painful it became for me to even write a single word. Léon Bloy wrote:
“Man has places in his heart which do not yet exist, and into them enters suffering in order that they may have existence.”
My heart is full of memories and there is no peace and comfort in my present situation. To me comfort:
“Is like the wrong memory at the wrong place or time.” Graham Greene
When I’m hurt there is so much going on inside me that sometimes it makes it hard to think and write. And I have to somehow detach myself from the pain, from the situation to be able to express my feelings. Yesterday when I realized that I won’t be able to put anything down on paper, nor be able to read, I decided to sit in the car and drive around. Bad idea!
“So it always is: when you escape to a desert the silence shouts in your ear.” Graham Greene
I returned from my excursion more depressed than before. See my late husband, may he rest in peace, had this thing about Valentine’s. Regardless of how we (he and I) chose to celebrate it, he used to take my son when he was very young to the stores so that he would buy Valentine gifts for his sister and myself, until my son was old enough to do it himself. The gift wouldn’t be something big, but a simple token, an appreciation of love between husband and wife, sister and brother, mother, father, son and daughter. With him gone, none of us had the heart to keep up this old habit.
Why is it then in misery we seem to be more aware of our own existence? In our unhappiness we realize what was taken from us and what we are missing from our lives. Strange enough the sense of unhappiness is so much easier to convey than that of happiness. I know my pain is individual, this mind that flinches belongs to me and to no other. And I don’t like to whine and moan endlessly, but on some days it’s so hard to get by. It’s just that, forgive me if I have mentioned it before:
“Writing is a form of therapy; sometimes I wonder how all those who do not write, compose, or paint can manage to escape the madness, melancholia, the panic and fear which is inherent in a human situation.” Graham Greene