6/6/19.

I’ll find myself in quiet reflection, gazing quite blankly out of the glass. Where I while away, a good part of the day, and pray that feelings of sadness will pass.

I’m not sad in the sense that nothing makes sense, but sad in the sense of… Well, I’m not quite sure. And I’ll idle away, singing songs while I play; winding the bobbing up as I point to the door.

There’s a weight that I carry as I trudge on this earth, to my emotional load it gives girth. I can’t comprehend if the sadness will end, but against melancholy I must defend.

But melancholy will quite frequently win, and all sense of joy and excitement will flounder. And sadness will flourish, with pity there too, and echoes of grey getting louder.

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