I wake up in stages of melancholia, shaking off the nightmare. I try to convince my brain it’s just a dream. I’m not trapped and I’m not late. It’s all in my head.

It’s a good morning if there is no pain. After a decade of hunching over a laptop, my back and neck rebel. But I negotiate with the ache then get up to stretch and take my meds. Stretching keeps the physio away and it’s been a few months with no episodes.

I force myself to exercise for 90 minutes. The doc says I must lose weight to ease the pressure on my back. I agree.

As the day progresses, I resist the pull of the ordinary. Surely there must be more to life than this. Something more suited to my dreams and ambitions.

I avoid the people seeking mentoring. I think faster than I am able to teach them. And they probably care more about my achievements than my daily reality.

At the end of the day, I grapple with stages of melancholia. I accept it and attempt to channel it. Sometimes I succeed. Other times I fail.

Caffeine temporarily lifts my spirits when the darkness descends. It helps me to skirt the edges of bitterness and to skip over the hurdles of despondency.

I conjure the light that only I can see. Speaking promises to myself that I heard long ago. I echo gratitude and mimic happiness. If I practice hard enough, the role will finally fit me.

I ignore those who say I should be thankful. Cause fuck ’em, what do they know?

People regurgitate empty formulaic words. Words that are meant to soothe but that lack power and glory.

And so, I work, create and produce. Every day is a grind of fruitfulness. But it’s lonely in my head. In the spaces where I see what few others can see, and know what few can know.

I try to communicate through my writing but I am stifled by the weight of it.

I am tired of finding the words and articulating thoughts. Weary of throwing pearl before swine. Exhausted by the sheer uphill task of explaining deep things.

Being shut in doesn’t help. The joy of traveling extinguished. Foregoing the bliss of new minds and fantastic things. Scenery filled with beauty, order and excellence.

Conversations bore me. The ones that rarely move forward but get stuck in an endless loop of felicitation. Then, there’s the dry predictability of routinization.

Oftentimes I read, for words bring me joy. But they also make me wise.

The wisdom seems too much for the mundane tasks I deal with on a daily basis. What’s the use of filling a tank that’s barely spent?

Maybe I’ll pick up an exciting bad habit. Something beyond the lines. Dark and grey with a splash of red. But it’s too easy to be bad. Not enough of a challenge. Too much trouble for too little joy.

So I’m caught in a spinning loop. It’s a phase of course and I’ve been here before. And so, these stages of melancholia progress with twists and turns.

I wonder how long will it last this time.

For more, please read You Can Be Introverted & Successful.

I wake up in stages of melancholia, shaking off the nightmare. I convince my brain it's just a dream. I'm not trapped and I'm not late. Click To Tweet

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *