I will indulge my sorrows, and give way to all the pangs and

Hear the cry of Joseph Addison, poet and moralist, who once declared: “I will indulge my sorrows, and give way to all the pangs and fury of despair.” These words, born from the stage of tragedy, thunder with the ancient recognition that man cannot forever bind his grief in chains. There comes a time when the heart must be allowed to break, when the flood must burst its dam, and when the soul, weary of silence, must cry out its anguish to the heavens.

From the beginning of human history, sages have known that suffering is not an intruder but a companion. The Greeks clothed their sorrows in the garments of tragedy, where kings fell not only by fate but by the weight of their own hearts. In Aeschylus and Sophocles, the mighty gave voice to lamentation, their cries echoing not as weakness but as sacred truth. Addison, steeped in these traditions, understood that to indulge sorrows is not to fall from dignity but to reveal the deepest honesty of the human condition.

Consider, O listener, the tale of Job from the ancient scriptures. Stripped of wealth, family, and health, Job sat upon the ashes and let his despair flow forth. His cries were fierce, his accusations bold, yet in that very rawness lay his strength. He did not mask his suffering with hollow words nor cloak it in false composure. Instead, he gave way to his fury of despair, and in time, that honesty brought him nearer to wisdom than silence ever could. Addison’s words echo this eternal truth: grief unspoken becomes poison, but grief expressed may become healing.

Yet note well the fire in Addison’s choice of words: “the pangs and fury of despair.” These are not quiet tears alone, but the storm of a soul unrestrained. Such moments, though terrifying, are part of the great drama of life. Even the bravest heroes, the most steadfast leaders, have felt them. Think of Abraham Lincoln, who during the dark hours of the Civil War confessed to friends that he was "the most miserable man living." He too allowed his sorrows to overwhelm him at times, and yet from that darkness, he emerged with the strength to guide a nation.

There is wisdom here, O seeker: to allow oneself to feel does not mean to be consumed forever. To give way is not to surrender life, but to honor truth. The heart that pretends strength while bleeding within is doomed to greater ruin. But the heart that permits itself to weep, to rage, to despair—this heart may one day rise again, cleansed by the storm. Thus Addison reminds us that despair, when embraced fully, need not be the end, but a passage through which the soul travels toward renewal.

Therefore, learn from this teaching: do not flee your sorrows nor despise them. When grief comes, do not shut it out, but let it speak. Write it, sing it, shout it, share it with those who can hear. For even in the fury of despair, there lies dignity, and even in the pangs of grief, there lies truth. To live is to weep as well as to rejoice, to despair as well as to hope.

So remember, O traveler of life: the one who denies sorrow denies his own humanity. But the one who faces sorrow, who dares to indulge it without fear, may in time find not only relief but strength. For just as the night sky reveals its stars only in darkness, so too does the human soul reveal its depth only through the passage of despair. Let Addison’s words be your guide: feel deeply, endure honestly, and rise again with greater wisdom.