Melancholy rings me up as the nightfalls, almost as if a reminder had been set and it had been waiting on cue. Although, I do not recognize what it truly looks like because it feels like a mesh of everything, some parts of I am familiar with while the rest glares at me from the eyes of a stranger. Upon diving deeper, I find that there’s rage that doesn’t have a home, it’s on the lookout for its rightful victim. It stands there and it looks like the reflection of raw pain; pain that is without reason, pain that isn’t accounted for. Little does it know, that everything it is searching for is within itself. Then there’s void, it floats around like a black hole about a surface that is a stranger to it as well.
But most of all, there is sadness, an overwhelming amount of sadness taking up the most part. It has no home, it is not looking for anything, it also doesn’t float around. It stays persistent where it is not moving an inch. It does not recognize itself and yet, it is the heaviest. Ironically, uncertainty has always been known to be the most ponderous. I wonder if it will ever learn to walk away or will it stay here like a lonely yet loyal fellow.
This pensive sadness thrashes me into thoughts I don’t understand, with questions I don’t have answers to and dreams that are all bizarre enough to knock me out. It entraps me within itself and connects all the dots for a perfectly knitted web so I can lay comfortably pretending that the silent ache has dulled. As I lay there, I fail to recognize and respond to the only thought that has taken the shape of a headache; why am I so in love with the idea of agony? Why do I feel infatuated with this agony, do I really not know any better? Why do I beautify the manner in which I creak and fall apart?
Is this what Stockholm syndrome is? To be a prisoner to something I don’t understand but can’t let go of.
I ought to give it a name, this captive of mine, so I call it melancholy, it feels like a winter breeze inside the four walls of my being. No, not a breeze, a thick black cloud on a sunny evening where everything feels flawless and perfect but in some way it also doesn’t (or perhaps it is my inner machinery creaking again and in actuality, everything is beyond perfect?). Seemingly, the world is okay, hell, it is so much more than okay. It is perfection, but the world inside me is crumbling with every breath it takes and I wonder if I’ve fractured a rib or two. And if I haven’t how do I justify this urge to weep a tragedy that took place but is yet to be witnessed by the eyes. I think of visiting a doctor, but how do I explain to him that I’m okay, I really am, things could never have been better, nothing presently hurts, but some things never stopped hurting and I don’t understand why my heart feels obliged to sink with every setting of the sun. The only difference between the two is that the sun rises while my heart patiently waits to set even deeper...