Melancholia

 Between the long moments when the mind finds itself staring at a greater depth of endings and the moments of unforeseen slumber, between early to rise mornings and late to bed nights, between those unfeeling yet alcohol induced sleepiness unfolding like black curtains over the waking period of sunny winter days, between the subtleties of boiling milk or refrigerated vegetables waiting to be chopped off, between the absolute dumbing down of humanity in the name of office, in the name of civilised existence and being able to afford food and rum to dumb things further down to a new low everytime, between the hallucinatory sickness called love or cancer, between the edges of walls and faces and minds where small cracks appear everyday, unnoticed, untreated, until one day it all gives way to thick roots of unknown trees, between the receding hairline and smell of yesteryears throbbing in your heart, between the roads leading to memories and roads leading to places where men dream with their eyes open under rain or night sky, and a directionless present moment weighing like a stillborn, we age - we age into something so monstrous yet sometimes so humble that it contradicts the idea of killing oneself, and we precipitate into a great sadness within ourselves.