𝐦𝐨𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐞

xviii

; inspired by ode on melancholy by john keats ;

the world offers me little in regards to optimism. my thoughts will always come and go, impermanent in the larger scheme of things. much like the passing of thoughts, the passing of time is inevitable; meaning that the notion of beauty is also temporary. the flower blossoms will always wither, the sun will always dip below the horizon each day, and time will continue to pass long after we are all gone. these things are inevitable.

i think about this as i frown at the newspaper between my hands. i think about how we spend our lives trying to make something of ourselves when it will soon be forgotten, how time is the consumer of everything. how the black and white headlines before me will be lost in history one day, and this paper will rot with this earth. the only thing i am sure will remain are these feelings of melancholy.

it takes only a moment to realise i am no longer in the familiarity of solitude, for there is a woman sitting beside me.

i smell her before i see her. she wear the scent of a strange, sweet poison. a mix of cigarette smoke and absinthe. it is appealing to me in the way that death may be appealing to a starving, suicidal soul; toxic but promising.

she is preoccupied with the dart between her fingers, and the globed peonies at our feet. she brushes their silky petals with a shadowy finger so delicately, as if not to wake them from their slumber. i notice how beautiful she is, in a dark, unconventional fashion. her cheekbones carved from marble, her body cloaked in the colour of obsidian.

she turns to me and i am immediately drawn to her eyes. they sit, so beautifully on her face, framed by long thick lashes and dark under-eyes as though she has endured a thousand sleepless nights. her irises are reminiscent of deep, dark pools of black liquid that could be drowned in, if one was so careless as to fall into her gaze. with her morbid beauty, i am reminded of the unorthodox charm of melancholy; the beauty of a feeling so depressing that it is strangely inspiring.

she does not say anything to me. there is no need. for her lips; coloured like the flesh of yew berries, gift me a small smile.

she adverts her attention back to the flowers, and gently plucks a small, ivory peony from the bushy earth. the flower is yet still young, too premature to be picked for display. it's velvety petals are still curled tightly into a globe, waiting patiently to open and greet the sun.

the intention of her action seemed dispirited to me. the irony of destroying something beautiful, something that had not yet met it's full potential, or yet touched the warmth of the sun, was unnecessary and quite spiteful. i supposed that she would admire its purity for only a moment, perhaps tuck it behind her ear until she no longer desired it, and let it decay at our feet with its sisters.

the death of the flower was inevitable, of course. much like the death of every sprouting flower bud in this park. much like the inevitable end that the beautiful woman beside me will meet. and much like my own end which will surely face me head on when least expected. but does the inevitability of death make it any easier? does the certainty that each flower will eventually meet the same fate mean that this blossom's short-lived life has no value? no, i do not think so. though it's life expectancy may have been short anyway, the blossom still had time to waste in growth before it withered away like everything else.

the woman presses her lips to the peony's silky globe, perhaps in an apology for shortening its already insignificant life. and with a hand, covered in a motley crew of violet scars, offers me the flower.
dumbfounded, and slightly awed at her sincerity, i accepted her beautiful, melancholic gift. i study the pink stain left by her lips, admiring the unique lines as though they are fingertips and i am some forensic scientist; trying to decipher who this beautiful woman in on the basis of the traces she has left. i open my mouth to thank her, not only for this gift but for the the pleasure of her brief, intoxicating company. but my gratitude falters into a mere whisper when i look up an realise she is no longer there.

in her absence i find myself dwelling on the flower, and i consequently feel a shift in my perception. it's life was short, of course. but does that not mean that it's life was beautiful? there is something oddly poetic about it's premature death. the inevitability of it happening certainly doesn't make it any easier, but i find myself wondering if the way i perceive certainty is the true cause for my pessimism .

the way one interprets this inevitability; the inevitability of melancholy, the impermanence of beauty, the ever- continuous passing of time, is dependant only on the individual. these things are certain to happen, but the way that we either embrace or reject these notions influences our perception, our optimism.

yes, the flower blossoms will always wither, the sun will always dip below the horizon each day, and time will continue to pass long after we are all gone. but is it not the impermanence of these things that make them so beautiful? the fact that the blossoms will wither does not mean they have any less value than when their silky petals first reach for a kiss from the sun. nor does the fact that the beautiful woman has disappeared mean that she was never here.

perhaps melancholy is the only thing that will surely remain. perhaps, it will stick with me until the day that the death moth finally settles on my shoulder and fulfils it's purpose. though, if this too is inevitable, i shouldn't let it consume me. rather, i should allow it to fuel me, because these feelings will pass as sure as the sun will rise after it has dipped below the horizon the day before.