Melancholy, no greater fuel for a writer. Its savoring taste of pain and frustration drives the engine to FINDING some literary forum. What produces it? Is it pain? Is it love? Is it anger?Hatred? What is this mystery in melancholy that makes the jaded seem so blissful. Where words that flowed with pessimism breed a sense of optimism. Is this that silver lining producing cloud? They say non can ever tell the doom and gloom then a melancholic but why be it that the ones in melancholia produces the sweetest words. Is pain the force that helps motivate the soul to search within and just let the emotions flow and guide our way. Why be so that as we read  Keats we find such love in anguish? How Kafka’s yearn is seen in his letters?

I wonder, be it in the theory of things that pain helps breed genius? Or are we such weak beings that in weak solitude we find quiet strength. Non can say they appreciate the taste of melancholy running through their veins as their pallets are tingling with bitter sweet truths. The bitter-sweet, in the word is where all things begin to explore their charm. The charm of how the cruelest of times stem from the best and how out of joy stems sadness. An equilibrium of things. Tilt it may but there is always a common point.

As is like any other curious cat, I fathom over this feeling of melancholy that somehow envelops my existence. The linger of something yet, gone. The yearning for something yet, not knowing. In reading Susan Sontag’s views on love I too wondered, “Is there a diagram of things? An illustration on the matter?” How true to feel and relate just in another’s take on things.

Dear reader, today’s blog is just ramblings on an illustration. In finding a way to vent I discovered the beauty in others works. Simplicity in the complicated is what probably defines most of my existence but like a cycle in need of proper brakes I paddle along with rusted anticipation of discovering my journey.


Love N ❤


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