I recently watched a documentary about Emily Dickinson’s life, which revealed some striking similarities between her experiences and my own, despite being born a century apart. The documentary explored themes like mental health, sadness, and the reasons behind Emily’s decision to live as a recluse for the last twenty years of her life.
As I listened, I realized that the power of great art lies in its ability to bridge gaps and connect people across time and space. In understanding Emily's challenges, I saw a reflection of myself and found solace in knowing that even a world apart, we could still share a connection. Inspired by these thoughts and feelings, I wrote this poem as a testament to the beauty that can arise from shared vulnerability and the resilience of the human spirit.
They say melancholy
is not a malady,
I should scrawl
small gratitude's
across paper
and be thankful
for the madness
of this anxiety
(only imagined)
or for the ache
of wanting more
that settles into
my bones at night,
howls into my ear
(you are aging).
There is nothing
poetic about a
yearning left unfilled,
only an emptiness,
an amputation of sorts,
the loss of me
walking away
in the form
of another person.
I wonder about Emily,
her social-annihilation,
self-imposed.
How she watched
the moon
from a window-seat,
spoke of love
from beyond
a closed door,
painted flowers
with words,
scripted letters
as confessions of love,
never posted.
They called her unstable,
an oddity, an irrational
secluded misfit.
But I understand
her chains,
the nervousness
diagnosed as neurosis.
I get her rebellion
against the norm,
her dive into the void.
I, too, find solace
beyond the trauma,
camaraderie in insanity.
I don't get the world,
it doesn't get me.
And I'd shut myself
away too,
if they'd let me.
