The Ophelia Complex: Life is not Tragedy
Theatre is played; biography is lived
Tragedy is only beautiful when somebody is watching. You are the one who lives your life, and there are no others peering in. So live it. Fuck up, feel sad, feel hopeless; wake up one day and realize you’re not nearly as broken as you were before, just don’t go drowning yourself in rivers full of petals in the backwoods of your mind.
You are not fucking Ophelia. You are not a throwaway character. You are not a delicate flower to be watered and admired; you have substance, you are strong as the trees. Nobody benefits from your misery, and you do not owe misery to any elusive playwright penning your life. You’ve been forced to write this piece all by yourself, lacking dialogue or direction, and so you must make of it what you can, before all of your autonomy turns into fatalism and your self-respect vanishes from playing the part of a character who is enfeebled with terror. The curtains do not draw back when you want to step out; life is chaos and sometimes it is forgotten lines, and noise. You get one plot line, one act. That is the brevity and the length of it.