Melancholy is my inspiration. I write the most passionately and the most sublimely when i’m pensive. And with all the crushing sadness I’ve been feeling you would think i’d get some writing done but… that’s just it. Melancholy isn’t crushing sadness. It’s not a wave but more like the wind. Divine yet transient. Ethereal yet ephemeral. It doesn’t crash over me like depression but it simply fills the air around me and inside of me, gently pushing me into a direction of it’s choosing. With everything i write there is something beautiful and bittersweet.
My writing is not so deep as the ocean but it is as flowy as the air around me. And i breathe poetry — I eat poetry — like air. Is there any beauty where this does not exist? Is there any breath where air does not exist? Is there an life where breath does not exist? Is there any soul where spirit does not exist?