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I did not listen when my mother told me that my mourning was unhealthy and that the psychiatrist had every right to medicate me, and though I kept my mouth shut in silent protest I felt like screaming the truth at her and rattling the newly painted green wood of our outdoor bench, because what my mother does not know is that there is a tragic beauty to grief, an elegance in the unblemished mantle of black that drapes the body and soul, its smoothness otherworldly, denoting an ability to love beyond the ordinary human bounds and into the realm of death, where, as in a black hole, a man enters but cannot escape, remaining trapped in the inky arms of death, and compelling his beloved to follow him into this mysterious country where beauty is marked by chasms of loneliness and love becomes obsession, and idée fixe like the haunting theme of the beloved in Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique, which frustration and anger can distort, but against which Death himself stands powerless.
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