With deeper allure—to ward off ghosts—melancholia is an empire. Such dialogue confuses—: one wrestling despair. It was remote living, inculcated values, rumors and resentment. To divulge humanness is vulnerability; a façade says—Life is in order, things are crisp. In not giving it a voice, smoldering as we do, pieces slip out of place, requiring restitching. It’s often addling: configuration (persona) and frustration. Expectation becomes nature: a pendulum is faced alone. As trying to
vocalize it, souls are busy. Such are stars above; such is ink and mortar. Many dreams damaged by dread. It was alarming to see us. In becoming fragments of us, one sees a deeper struggle. To imagine happiness as an absence of sadness; or sadness a deficit of happiness: familiar language. One might get lost in religiosity, pleasure, spirituality—drums, piano, classical studies, etc. With observation, we see a regenerative property. Something desires to recharge daily. On another side
of it all—must exist pure joy, ignoring human condition. To possess utter simplicity; to dine on laughter: some dream as it lives. Else, wholeness of existence is wrestling with discomfort. If to pride humanities—such segue into turbid reality: to have adored as does a fledgling, introduced to something seamy. With love seeming askew. Needing to call admiration by a different name. Fumbling through misnomers. If to give meaning to many souls, accustomed to longing.
