MELANCHOLIA.
The sadness creeps up on me, seeping into my skin, sending shivers down my spine.
It’s the rain, dripping from the pine trees onto the dirt in front of my toes. It’s the windscreen wipers screaming as they try to keep up as I escape into the hills. It’s the dark clouds and thunder – loud and angry, ripping through the air. It’s bleak mornings and drawn curtains, dark rooms and heavy blankets, smothering the light of day.
And you tell me you feel it too – coming over you without warning, wrapping itself around your chest – forcing you to face the thoughts that I know all too well you keep hiding under the surface, pretending they don’t exist.
This melancholia, as you like to call it, follows us around and around. Until we’re simply deep swirls, on a starry night canvas, never touching.
Like the plug pulled from a bath or a hurricane in the sky, we dance around the issue and destroy our destiny in one deep twirl.
