Photograph credit: Kinga Cichewicz at and

You know, mentally jumping with joy that I can finally find a quiet, lonely corner where I can “melancholise” whole-heartedly. Where tears can well up without embarrassment. If they want to swell up and roll out, I’ll have no panic attack sensation and will not need to urgently devise a fool-proof plan to very conspicuously wipe them clean. You know, when you finally decide to carry your phone to the washroom with a non-hurried attitude to pour it all out into an email to yourself. Because, if the email is not responded to by the hero, or villain, of your sorrows, or by your chosen confidante, it will be crushing and you can’t get sadder than “melancholy” now, can you?  You can’t ignore when your soul is hanging desperately from an imaginary curtain, kneeling and begging to be paid attention to, while your outer body pretends and forces itself to continue, without much success, in the daily hosh posh of things. That doesn’t work.

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