Poem: "I'm still alive"...

Poetry time...

When Curt Cobain died Eddie Vedder sang,
“I’m Still Alive”...

A celebration of life in a time of despair.

In the same way, when my brother died,
I was – after receiving the news,
ruminating over it,
internalizing it – glad to be alive.

“I’m a survivor”...

And, “Angie, ain’t it good to be alive”.

That feeling, the sadness at someone’s death
and at the same time, a quiet
joy of being alive oneself.

“To exist is nothing insignificant,” as Frithjof Schuon said.



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I spent some time browsing the internet for “authors having
killed themselves” – this leaving me in the same state – of sadness –
and also a quiet joy – of being alive. An oxymoron.
Not arrogance, not haughtiness, not vindictiveness,
not smug self-satisfaction. Just a mixed sense of
sadness and serenity.

Sylvia Plath, gassing herself to death because of depression.

Virginia Woolf, drowning herself because of depression.

Karin Boye, taking an overdose of tranquilizers because of depression.

Vilhelm Moberg, drowning himself because of depression: he went “to seek
the waters,” “jag går att söka sjön”...

Hemingway, shot himself because of depression.

Otto Weininger, shot himself because of his magnum
opus Geschlecht und Charakter not having made an impression.

David Foster Wallace, hung himself because of depression.

Stig Dagerman, gassed himself to death with car engine exhaust
because of writer’s block and depression.

Norwegian writer Leonard Borgzinner:
he shot himself, hard to know why... He even said
in 1980 that his only ambition was to live another ten years.

The list of authors killing themselves goes on and on.

Writing is a high-risk occupation.

Angie, oh Angie, ain’t it good to be alive...



Related
Cars and stars
Art by my late brother
In Swedish: Karin Boye
In Swedish: Leonard Borgzinner