august thirty-first.

I am obsessed with Virginia Woolf. I'm reading The Voyage Out, but before the actual story there's an introduction about the author and book as a whole. Her life and ideas concerning it are so interesting to me, I have no idea why it's affecting me this much. She committed suicide by putting her overcoat on, filling it with rocks, and walking into a river where she drowned herself. This, coupled with the note she left her husband, 

"I feel certain that I am going mad again. I feel we can't go through another of those terrible times. And I shan't recover this time. I begin to hear voices, and I can't concentrate. So I am doing what seems the best thing to do. You have given me the greatest possible happiness. You have been in every way all that anyone could be. I don't think two people could have been happier 'til this terrible disease came. I can't fight any longer. I know that I am spoiling your life, that without me you could work. And you will I know. You see I can't even write this properly. I can't read. What I want to say is I owe all the happiness of my life to you. You have been entirely patient with me and incredibly good. I want to say that — everybody knows it. If anybody could have saved me it would have been you. Everything has gone from me but the certainty of your goodness. I can't go on spoiling your life any longer. I don't think two people could have been happier than we have been. V." 

sends shivers down my spine. There's something so perfectly broken about the note, so raw but beautiful at the same time. I haven't even read past page ten yet, I need to get a hold of myself. 

xox,

lovefrommichigan.