Melancholy
Melancholy is sometimes overwhelming. Sometimes, you notice beauty only when you’re melancholic, and it puts everything in perspective.
Sometimes words ring hollow. A letter says more than a book. Sometimes your eyes see color, and things become clear. Words fail, but a simple photo says it all; Love, comfort, warmth, fascination, worry and fear.
Sometimes you stand on the muddy banks and look into the crystal lake rippling from the aftermath of a tiny pebble. You look into that bottomless beauty and you find god. You pray. You hope to drown in it, you realize you’ve already drowned, you wonder how it could be possible to drown twice. You are afraid of that gulp of water that might be fatal, and that might be bliss. Sometimes blissfully fatal.
Sometimes, at that moment, all the pieces fall into place.
Lord Byron said: “I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.”
He was wrong. Perfection is a Utopian dream. Reality ebbs and flows. You could play the game and roll with it. You could take the game in your own hands. You could fight, and possibly lose, or you could give up, and relish the magical mutual moments. You could die and live. You could live and die. You could be satisfied. You could be you.
