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A Case of Melancholy

A sudden revelation
came to me, just now,
I realized, that this
melancholia has lasted
many moons past the
novelty of invention

There is a certain freedom
in allowing oneself to simply
be. In such a condition, we
do not waste any time, all
moments are appreciated for
what they are, whether that
holds the key to some creative
action, religious experience, or
simply the blank stares unto
traffic patterns atop carpeting—I do not know, but know just the same.

When an individual first decides to
commit himself to such an antithetical
pursuit of existence, I believe there is
A springboard moment, in fact, I’ll go so
far as saying, that within every moment, every
movement ever conceived by man, there was a catalyst,
A prime mover, and in the case I’m discussing now, this
is no different.

My springboard moment was not a moment at all actually, but an extended period of time, constituted by several instances, that alone bore no threat to myself or any notion of life theory, however, when compounded, when placed under the microscope of continuous design, the reality was as such, where there was no evidence of forward motion, only stagnancy and complacent means, enveloping a sadness deep within the framework of the moorings themselves.

Such a state can, as it had in my own case, eradicate desire from vocabulary, replacing it with lechery and incomparable bouts of debilitating quicksand sponsored debasement, ever only finding one’s emotional labor, hard-earned yet easily spent, emotional dollars, producing nothing but mere reflections of the life we desired, a temptation dangled before us, like the dog and the carrot, where allure induces rapid heart-rate and an intense desire to obtain the prize, but here, the carrot is most certainly dangled, but not in fully realized imaging, it is more closely resembling a holographic reflection presented in an area where playback is consistently interrupted by interference and distortion, but even when the carrot is fully formed and perhaps it’s scent even wafts, inciting reaction from gustatory sensations within, the prize is dangled too far from me, it was there, but at such a distance, where the rationally based mindset producing impossible odds of possibility, thus ending any real moment of spark that may have been likely if there were, at least, some semblance of confidence, as to the ability to capture the prize dangling there.

From this point, it was all a mere case of connectivity. With the primer applied, the paint can most easily be applied. I felt the languor that listless conversation breeds, the ennui that spans all points surrounding and in between. I was in a most impressionable state of being, and seeing the injustice and travesties broadcast fully everywhere, it was only a short jump to relate the lack of gloss apparent in both the inner and outside worlds, where the personal tragedy echoes the statements made from the broadly presented worldview. The attitude, “if suffering is everywhere, as it certainly does appear to be, then who am I to believe that I should have it any different,” thus opening the windows wide, allowing the pain to build its unyielding campaign upon my being.

So, into melancholy I would go, spiraling down and down and down and down, but never truly out of control, which, I would have to guess that if control would have been completely lost, then at least a flickering of life could have been viewed as a positive deliberation. However, in my case, control was there, but the mind could care less to make such choices, in so, continuously deferring mental rights to the sadness itself.

First to go was contact. Slowly you saw no purpose of conversation, even with those you still consider your closest of friends. You would not answer or return calls, watching the frequency of action decrease in a steady decline.

The next step was to construct an inner monologue that would effectively paint a pathetic air to each word, each turn of phrase, thus coloring your position clearly to any that your limited base of contact can not eliminate simply for not caring alone.

Finally, well, not finally, but certainly a phase that is both dangerous and freeing. You just care not for what is worn, how appearance is viewed, and tattered, hobo-like images associated with the homeless and procuring just an ounce of a pity that has somehow merged itself with a small semblance of fear.

Disheveled you can see the transformation build upon the undoing set before it, and with each length of hair, that extends further away from scalp and root, you pause, reflecting on where exactly it thinks it is, and can be, realistically, running to. Ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssssshhh…

Each day the face is free enough to allow the identity to get buried more and more, not as in being placed beneath soul, but behind mounds of facial growth, sending society further away, creating a reflection of what shunning would be held, if the living dead were for real, but even so, the key word is living, which such monsters would inherently hold advantage over where I am now.

Today I looked in the mirror. Today…I look in the mirror. I do not judge, I am free. A fully drawn out character of what Melancholy reflects inwardly.

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About hobgoblin2011

I'm a poet and aspiring screenwriter/songwriter with a passion for film, art, photography, philosophy and heavy metal. I love reading, mainly non-fiction, comic books, graphic novels, myth and reference. Family always comes first for me. I'm a proud father to two wonderful pups and two curious cats. I'm also a glutton for punishment aka the life of being a diehard Buffalo Bills and Sabres fan.

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