Melancholia by April Center
Blanche Dubois. We watch this wretched woman disintegrate to madness, while cavalier men remain courteous, yet callous, to her mental collapse. As a young woman, I assumed that Blanche?s madness was a sad internal flaw, suffering an imperfection impervious to the universe at large. I no longer believe that Blanche?s fragile infirmity was the result of an endogenous defect. Rather, Blanche?s melancholy was the result of crushing loss of those she loved and who loved her; her youth and years irretrievable. I am Blanche Dubois. The cold, heartless wind of loss has swept down to destroy home, heart, and hope? barriers that serve to protect. An ill-wind blows and breaks the mirror of my life into shards, with which I carefully cut away anything left as so much detritus. The remains of my soul feels no solace, no redemption, and no life. I am a stranger in my life. Friends, relatives, and neighbors are strangers, only names. In the looking glass, no apparition is reflected. Reflection serves no purpose, provides no context. Descending into my mind, I have lost myself. My mind sinks into melancholy, then madness. Only the kindness of strangers remains.
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