Melancholy

We cannot live without our melancholy. She is ever-willing to leave our presence, at the mere suggestion, the mere assertion of our will, a determination towards movement, a shedding of the infinite silence of its haunting chrysalis and the stillness she hides in -- she is willing; she is standing at the door, a face that appears to hold the deepest of ambivalence, but it is this moment that she melts, at this moment we melt, and she is taken again, not in open arms, but removed to the remote corner. We may stare, but we do not dare touch; it is at our touch that she dissovles into happiness, and we cannot have this. Happiness does not have this mysterious beauty about it; it does not have the seedling, the promise, of something that we perpetually find ourselves wagering will consummate in something ineffably brilliant, charming, ravishing. No, no, melancholy holds her mystique better than happiness could ever hold our spirits, and this incredible beauty inherent to it, to the whole process at times excruciating, this infinitesimal wonder, so peripherally seen by the mind in its soreness in the face of pain, I tell you, my wise ones who know this ground with your own feet, this is our motivation in sustaining the doors of sadness, locked from the inside. Happiness, pure happiness, is too boring, too bland, too common. Give us our suffering; throw out the possibility of escaping the necessity of its course. Suffer boldly, as you love boldly, and your name will be refashioned: impenetrability. We may be pushed, but we are not broken; we may despair, but we do not remain in the coldnesss of its deathgrip. Our melancholy does not negate our happiness; it becomes it. But first we must accept it; for there is but one impossibility: conceiving it to be within the ground of possibility in escaping it.