I accidentally found out the word “languor” when I read a blog of a Vietnamese girl, who kept writing in English as a way to express herself more than to revise vocabulary. I love the word “languor”, for its meaning contains paradox:
- Tiredness or inactivity, especially when pleasurable.
- An oppressive stillness of the air.
(Online Oxford Dictionary)
Why can I distill pleasure from my tiredness, or it’s just fake tiredness that I’ve been imagining to comfort and console myself. Too much love, too much lassitude, too much caring for my own dreaming world lead to too much languor. That’s why I’ve kept feeling painful and pleasant coincidentally.
I just type this post after long time no write anything in English, since thinking back everything, I guess that word definitely suits me, just for me. When I created this blog, even all over the world, there is no blog having the same name as mine.
When my mouth opens to pronounce “languor”, do you know how I feel, I feel like I’m unveiling something that has been insulating my heart, my head for a long time, and my inner self gradually becomes exposed and fragile, but beautiful (at some aspects). I find my whole soul transparent.
I love the word much more when coming across the poem There is a Languor of the Life written by Emily Dickinson. How funny, it’s not even related to my situation right now, just contains the word I’m always obsessed with.
There is a Languor of the Life
More imminent than Pain—
’Tis Pain’s Successor—When the Soul
Has suffered all it can—
A Dimness like a Fog
As Mists—obliterate a Crag.
The Surgeon—does not blanch—at pain
His Habit—is severe—
But tell him that it ceased to feel—
The Creature lying there—
And he will tell you—skill is late—
A Mightier than He—
Has ministered before Him—
There’s no Vitality.