Dear Melancholy,
I honestly don't think being so damn present in my life is the best thing for me right now. Yet there you are, in the gray of the sky, in the loneliness of the brightest star at 3 am. In the most isolated recesses of the dark room I am sitting in. Alone. Brought on by distance and fear. Summoned in the moments when we are surrounded by people and on a deserted island in our minds. This is a different kind of sickness, a different kind of sadness. Always there, but not as the first thing we think about in the morning. More like the nagging feeling of out-of-place-ness in the moments before restless sleep, and in the abandoned feeling of a cold cup of coffee and a book left half read, sitting on the table, bookmark and all. No, you are not the best thing for me right now. But you're what's left.
