How easily i find myself slipping into melancholy

How easily I find myself slipping into melancholy

A steely grey overtone

permeates my innermost workings,

the cracks in my brain ooze wistfulness

when pressed.

Even when things are going well

the sun can be shining

and still

it’s like a London fog descends upon my essence

and I find myself floating through the world

to the tune of a cello concerto in B minor.

I hear Pale Blue Eyes

faintly from someone’s car

as they make a smooth left turn.

Is it sadness

or is it the burden of being so deeply acquainted

with the naked, raw humanness inside us all?

It’s a kind of nostalgia for the soul,

a never ending race run backward

that can never be won.

Sometimes it manifests as a kind of Morrissey pride

a middle finger to the world

black leather paired with a pinch of brooding.

But most of the time

the door is open

it leads deeper

streams of foreboding

turn into oceans of chagrin.

If I’m not careful

an afternoon of dappled sun

and steel drums in the park

can turn into a slow but steady sinking

a vagueness that pulls me back into the void

so stealthily

that I don’t even know that I’m drowning.

And I can be standing in a crowded room

and still feel the prickling of loneliness

an exhausting familiarity

blanketing my limbs like goosebumps.

And sometimes I’m so deep in this haze

the whole world filled to the brim

with the specific feeling of ennui

evoked by

Please, Please, Let Me Get What I Want.

Then just like that, a surprise –

a friend calls to me from across the street

proving that maybe

every man is not an island.

Maybe we are peninsulas

jutting out into the deep all by ourselves

our foggy grey matter convincing us

that’s how this world works

but really

our hearts hum

to the same rhythm.

We long to be pulled

back to the mainland,

we hope

for a break

in the disconsolate clouds.

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