Melancholy

Melancholy

Melancholy.

Whatever it means to anyone else, or perhaps, to everyone else, to me it’s a blend of emotions that attain a balance in ambivalence, but for its depths and heights at either end, or for the resonance and echoes it generates, amidst fields of rainbows and gilded meadows.

The bitter not so bitter, merely setting the scene for sweetness set in seas of memories, and that’s the sad part, that the sweet is set in the past. Metaphors and similes lack the substance to bring back the tender touch of realities that melancholy evokes.

The past, a treasure trove of so many irreplaceable links; relived constantly but never quite the way they were. Sometimes idealized and as often over-criticized, yet treasured still, all too often evoking fantasies of might have beens or what ifs, or even, dreams that they might somehow be re-experienced differently, that errors might somehow be corrected and set on paths towards other futures now long past.

I often dwell in fields of dreams set in plains of melancholy, regret mating with the distilled satisfaction of at least having passed through events peopled with precious memories; the skein of my existence long ago having past its median, my infinities now perhaps more in the past than in the future; like the twilight at dusk or dawn, drawing me back as I drift forward. A balance of sorts, a time for reflection and contemplation, and balancing of sentiments.

Passions spent but echoing still.

Melancholy.
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© Guillermo Calvo Mahé; Manizales, 2014; all rights reserved

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