✽ PARAPHERNALIA FOR MELANCHOLY || BY EMILY SATTLER

C H A P T E R 0 1

updated 27-01-19

You are isolated there, in the oddness of your being no longer common or repeatable, detached from your history and from the grime of use, you enter a new dimension. A quality of peculiarity develops in you and you glow with it as with the breath of a purer world - meaning only that we see you clearly now in the light of this one.

Now you stand there barefoot, in thickets of flesh wrapped around the membrane of your thoughts in beige cloth and denim. Shawled in red hair, you float till the tide foams around your ankles. Drowning you are, upon the debris of your past, then falling and falling, till you slip away into the invading tenebrosity, in a way that you are so terribly inconspicuous you shine like neon lights. 

No longer do you tend to reach the face of the surface, the one in which you were ought to hoist yourself above. Perhaps your eyes are still closed, your lips still puckered, yare to kiss the world one last goodbye. Your life is knitted into the recycled threads of nostalgia, locked inside a glass bottle, splinters of false hope ricocheting against the walls you perpetually build.

You, a slave of iniquity, not under the law but under your own command, slowly you're dying. You're breaking. You're falling. You've fallen.

God, you're such a mess, you can't even get back onto your own fucking feet.

You lie there wasted, in a pounding stream of blood and dry tobacco, unable to open your eyes from the salt that fills your pores. And, with the faintest of voices, you cry. A single cry.

Because sometimes that is all you can do;

just,

cry