Summer Hiroshima Moon
Not sure, after decades, how melancholy creeps up on me, or descends on me, or floats up from within, but it always comes as a surprise, a worrying intrusion, slowing things down and making the day seem long. Often the night is longer, though this time, sleep has not been a problem.
A heaviness, a pushing down from the head, into the arms, weighing down the limbs, making them slow to move. A sensation of molasses, of inner opacity. Clarity gets lost and motivation seeps away, down, down, as though a drain were in the floor, eagerly taking the will, the drive and venting it out through a series of pipes, sewer pipes no doubt.
My eyes downcast, as if burdened by shame. Even breathing labors.
Where did this come from? Where will it go? Why used to matter, but the repetition and the suddenness and the inexplicability have left me more with resignation. This is the inner weather of the moment, a low pressure center moving through my soul at its own pace and with its own agenda. Reef the sails and stay below deck.