Sometimes I'm very content with this whole "being sick and not having a clue what's going on with my body" thing. But then, those times of contentment are usually cut short by me freaking out that I really shouldn't be content because I'm suffering... and well... suffering is supposed to always be bad and miserable, right? I never wrote about this, because writing about it made me realize that it didn't really make sense... I thought it was too silly to write about. But I've been reading "A Grief Observed" by C.S. Lewis and I just stumbled upon this paragraph (it's about him dealing with the death of his wife, who is "H" in the book, and how he's starting to feel a little less miserable at one point...):
"Still, there's no denying that in some sense I 'feel better,' and with that comes at once a sort of shame, and a feeling that one is under a sort of obligation to cherish and foment and prolong one's unhappiness. I've read about that in books, but I never dreamed I should feel it myself. I am sure H. wouldn't approve of it. She'd tell me not to be a fool. So I'm pretty certain, would God."
Hmm. I guess I'm not so strange after all (just a little foolish sometimes)...
No comments:
Post a Comment