I was bored the other day so I went to a bookshop and stumbled upon a collection of Oscar Wildes short stories. I scrolled through it and realized that I'd had a book like it when I was little. I actually really liked it.
I remember when the teacher asked what our favorite story was, and I said The Nightingale and the Rose by Oscar Wilde. I was like 9, right. It's about a bird, a nightingale, hearing a man complain of how he will die if he doesn't get this woman, and he wants to give her a red rose. So the nightingale sacrifices himself to a rose bush which turns a white rose red. In the end, though, the woman doesn't want the man, so he throws away the rose.
How could I have been this depressing at such an early age?
Makes me wonder if we're born to a certain degree of happiness.
Apperently I've always been pulled to artistic beauty, suffering I suppose you could call it.
Behind every kind of beauty there is some kind of pain, that sort of deal.
But I can't share that with other people. I once met a guy who said phrases like that seriously. I couldn't help but laugh, because it seemed like the sort of thing you don't speak of.
It was awfully romantic but he was obviously just striving towards it because otherwise you're not as concious about it and willing to share the idea with people you just met.
It's what we never really achieve: to see other people at their most vulnerable. For a moment it may bring you closer to a person than you could have ever been otherwise, but once you've really seen someones pain, there's no way to be around them anymore. I guess you see glimpses of it sometimes, and that's what draws people together, the traces of misery we never really get to share fully. A moment of seriousness before you laugh it off.
x
/E
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