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43
Melancholia.
<p>She sat on the upper balcony, watching the world.</p><p>It had not yet woken. Not the sun, not the animals, not even the small, familiar sounds of living. Everything was suspended in that strange hour before morning properly arrived, when the world seemed to belong only to itself.</p><p>And somehow, even like this, in the absence of life, it was beautiful. It was a strangely cruel realisation, because she wanted to be beautiful too.</p><p>She gazed longingly at the sky, at its greys and melancholy, at the intimidating vastness of it all. There was something almost tragic about the way it held itself above her, so heavy with sorrow and yet so beautiful despite it. She seemed to question it with her eyes. How do you do it?</p><p>The sky answered with a clap of thunder.</p><p>Then the rain came. It fell suddenly, violently, pouring itself over rooftops and trees, spilling its grief across the earth without shame. Even that was coated in a deep, aching melancholy.</p><p>And once again, she was jealous. Jealous of the sky for being allowed to grieve so loudly. Jealous that it could be devastated in plain sight and still be called beautiful. That no one looked at its darkness and thought it was ugly. No one asked it to brighten up. No one told it that its sadness made it difficult to love.</p><p>The sky could be broken and breathtaking at once. She wished she could be too. Today, more than ever, she needed more than the company of her fraying mind.</p><p>She needed a hug, cup of coffee placed gently into her hands, a loving gaze that lingered a little too long.</p><p>She needed to be the subject of a muse, to be admired, looked up to, worshipped, loved with the kind of tenderness that made a person feel chosen. She wanted someone to look at her as though there were nothing in the world more worthy of looking at.</p><p>The thought of it tugged violently at the thread of her loneliness. And then it snapped.</p><p>She fell to all fours, the cold tiles beneath her palms, crying with a desperation that had nowhere to go. Sobbing. Breaking. Her body folding in on itself beneath the weight of her sorrow. </p><p>She felt sick.</p><p>Sick of ugliness.</p><p>Sick of loneliness.</p><p>Sick of pain.</p><p>Sick of grief.</p><p>Sick of wanting to be loved and having nowhere to put all the love she had.</p><p>Somewhere above her, the sky kept crying too, only the sky was still beautiful.</p><p><br/></p>
Melancholia.
By
Caramel
Caramel
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