And I Know It's Not Sensible To Be This Passionate Everyday

It is an interesting thing to have someone look into your face and pronounce you in need of mental help, just because you were being honest.

I think there is a certain macabre beauty in the death of Ophelia, in the death of Virginia Woolf, in the death of Joan of Arc. Apparently, that makes me quite odd, and even perhaps frightening. I never meant to frighten anyone with my opinion, though I am quite certain that I am eccentric indeed.

I just appreciate tragedy; it is what comes from perpetually caring too much, about everything. But I don't seek to "fit in," and I cannot really understand why I would. I'm motivated by something greater, something deeper, something grander, nearly every moment, and though it is sometimes exhausting and devastating, my choice is perpetually to hold on and hope.