Winter Cold Moon
Melancholy. It has a purple, gauzy purple backlit with a soft light, feel. The color invades each crevice of the mind, casting a haze. Feelings seem to gravitate toward the haze, not upbeat, let’s get on with this feelings, but sad ones, distressed ones, doubtful ones. These feeling seem to detach themselves from their referents and attach themselves to the thoughts arising now.
Example. At least I’m up here writing, 5:20 a.m. That’s progress given the last 5 weeks. Yes. Yes. It’s progress, but to what end? Who cares that you write this blog? Do you even care? Look around. See all those books, all those ideas and thoughts? What have you contributed? Ever? Oh. Yes, I do see. Could be pointless, right? A shiver of distress ripples across the future work that comes to the surface. Why finish the book? Why learn Latin? Why keep at things, anyway?
Pointless floats up, out of the sentence to which it’s tethered and becomes a prompt. Pointless? Absurd. Absurd. Existentialism. Of course. It’s all, always pointless unless we bring in meaning like a turkey at Thanksgiving. And I do.
This is my life, the one I’ve constructed over the years, the one that fits my history, my skills, my dreams. Is it the only or the best life for me? God, who knows? Is it a life with meaning, with contributions to the world? Yes. Well. There you go.
That’s how melancholy can contain within itself the seeds of its own dissipation. The haze lifts and the usual light, a soft light still, plays over the mind. This light soothes, encourages, spotlights possibility instead of despair. A better light to throw on the matter.
