To be actualized through a piece of art. To be timelessly pondered about without any platform to have her own voice. Because of sheer and finite admiration. A kind of heinous eternity that becomes claustrophobic and confining. To be forgotten is better than remembrance, if in attempts to encapsulate a muse through an eternal image. But dedication, the act of dedicating through genuine love. No longer becomes infinite misery. But rather a kind of eternal peace.
There was something wrong. And as young as she was, she knew better than to allow herself to be normalized by her sister's behavior. As much as she tried to understand. She couldn't help but feel revolted. She watched her demise and her self-deprivation of anything sane. Memory is a funny thing. You can try with all your might but the ones that stick - they cling on to dear life - unyielding to the torments of the heart and mind. It was anything but selective. It had rather selected her - consuming her thoughts like a parasite.
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“Reality-testing has shown that the loved object no longer exists, and it proceeds to demand that all libido shall be withdrawn from its attachments to that object. This demand arouses understandable opposition—it is a matter of general observation that people never willingly abandon a libidinal position, not even, indeed, when a substitute is already beckoning to them. This opposition can be so intense that a turning away from reality takes place and a clinging to the object through the medium of a hallucinatory wishful psychosis. Normally, respect for reality gains the day. Nevertheless its orders cannot be obeyed at once. They are carried out bit by bit, at great expense of time and cathectic energy, and in the meantime the existence of the lost object is psychically prolonged…Why this compromise by which the command of reality is carried out piecemeal should be so extraordinarily painful is not at all easy to explain in terms of economics...One feels justified in maintaining the belief that a loss of this kind has occurred, but one cannot see clearly what it is that has been lost, and it is all the more reasonable to suppose that the patient cannot consciously perceive what he has lost either. This, indeed, might be so even if the patient is aware of the loss which has given rise to his melancholia, but only in the sense that he knows whom he has lost but not what he has lost in him. This would suggest that melancholia is in some way related to an object-loss which is withdrawn from consciousness, in contradistinction to mourning, in which there is nothing about the loss that is unconscious.”
-Freud "Mourning & Melancholia"
