(photo by Sarah Moon)
Is there anything more melancholy than a late Sunday afternoon of a perfectly formed weekend? When the sky is blue and the air is clear and and seems a most faultless lover? When sidewalk tables are filled with laughter and beauty? When with every breath you feel most ardently that deep down thing? No, nothing more sad nor mournful than knowing that is over. You must face what was left before.
If only the weather, I had--the tone and mood and atmosphere and the things that lie within my heart and nerves--bones, brain, and tendons. Nonpareil. Sometimes enough.
you described my Sunday perfectly...melancholy...sometimes enough...only sometimes!
ReplyDeleteI love the melancholia until it turns to despair. There is the danger. Melancholy is like heroin, I imagine. But it is also like alpenglow.
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