Melancholia

An account of the mystical land of Melancholia

Melancholia 

In dreary days, in times when the flute-like harmony of the winds breeze rings low and serene as if to drag us all into the land of melancholia. It is said that the dark is only the absence of light and hence has no scale of measurement, which means that the sadness isn't but the absence of that ecstatic fragrance of the very basic life ensuring soil of will and motive.

       But let me tell you more about melancholia, more about the knotted threads of insecurity wrapped with mountain-red veils of self loathing that scatter on the gates of melancholia. The eerie scent of fear which resonates through the darkest grey corners of the velvet skied melancholia. The fangs of sinister memories come scaring your every tissue as the worry about tomorrow soars high among the clouds of your doubts, eyes sharp and cold the worry hunts for any sign of mistrust you have of the world and it spreads the virus of your fear to every innocent fragile thought you have, all after having buried your faith in the concept of hope deep within your staggering soul.