Too Much Perfection?

It’s a French word. It’s a Sylvia Plath poem. It’s what I’m feeling today.

It is a beautiful word. I think it may be one of my favorites. Perhaps my very favorite. But really, there are so many to choose from.

The real pity is that the word seems to be slightly miscontrued when transferred to the English language. Yes, we use the word as it is — as it is pronounced. But the meaning is slightly slanted. If you look it up in the dictionary, you’ll find that it means boredom. However, that’s not exactly how I’ve always perceived it to be. Melancholy might be closer. Yet that’s still not right…

It’s not a feeling of boredom, and it really isn’t melancholy. It is a feeling of its own. It’s not unpleasant, but not entirely enjoyable either.

It’s odd. And I’m odd for pondering the meaning of a single word in a blog.