Letter To Melancholia

Dear Melancholia, 

Where did you go, old friend?
We used to spend nights together, writing poetry in a wrinkled old notebook, drinking vanilla tea, chasing sunsets on the beach of Tel-Aviv. We used to listen to Leonard Cohen, and Joni Mitchell, and Fiona Apple. But only the sad songs, yes? Yes. Only the sad songs. 
We watched clouds pass and imagined them to be sirens passing by our planet, waving hello or saying goodbye. We used to dwell on our existence, or non- existence, and how we matter and how we don't and how the only thing we really are - IS matter. We used to confuse others with our thought process. We used to inspire some... but mostly together we confused others. 

And now? Without your everlasting constant presence, happiness runs through me like a skin fungus that takes months to heal. It's exhausting! The laughter, the smiling, the joy... We are not primed for it, you and I. No. Dear Melancholia, you are a piece of my puzzle, an essential piece of my puzzle. Without you I am a bubbly ball of jello, of flat shallow waters, of no substance.
I yearn for you, Melancholia, and I find you in the pages (well, digital pages) of this blog, in Fado music I adore so much, and in the underlining yearning for meaning. Simply, for meaning. You are my quest for meaning. For others, and some mental health professionals - you are a form of depression. A deep sadness. But to me you are none of those things, you are the brutal honest look into beauty and the different feelings it stores. And yes, some pain, and sadness. Because one cannot have everything without nothing, and one cannot have substance without knowing true absence. 

Where did you go, my old friend?
Did you spot another teenager's heart that needed tending? A heart that was torn apart, confused and wounded, and it needs to learn the language to heal itself. The language that you so gently offer, Melancholia. The language of the soul. 

I'm grateful for your spirit. 

Love,

I, Me, and Nobody.