A Man of Dolor
It is not very often I am sad. I have been throughout my life aggrieved or angered, disappointed or doubtful, benighted of candor or besotted with anguish. But outright sad? A rarity.
So here I sit, writing for me—and, after a fashion, for you as well—without direction or condition, cause or target, sink or wick. I don't really know what to do with this interval. Be thankful that I don't so often have a melancholy about me? Be forensic and think my big brain into solving a whodunnit? (first I'd have to manufacture a culprit)
Am I run aground? Empty? Have my palliative skills gone on the blink? Have I forgotten to apply them to myself often enough? Have I depleted my reserves?
In writing, I think. In thinking, in sadness, I look for answers. A significant step away from my usual search for better questions and the natural fluidity of mind which comes from it.
Perhaps I'm trying to answer a thing that isn't a question.
Perhaps, as dreaming is a means of clearing the cobwebs of the mind, sadness is a means of scrubbing the patina off of the spirit and the heart.
Perhaps there's no motion because there's no traction and el Mundo triste's coefficient of static friction isn't up to snuff (and perhaps physics isn't the language for this).
This mood had an onset, I tell myself, and therefore will have an ending. So I should hold close my coin-purse of Summer Accelerators and wait for the right time to spend my wealth.
But Spannungsbogen is sometimes on too high a shelf, and patience is a thing espoused usually by those endowed with world and time enough. I should know.
I should remember.
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