Oh, I know the melancholy well. Dark blue and purple hues that become my aura, cloud my mind, and fog my reality. I know melancholy like hearing crickets sing on a Sunday night on a Southern porch, creaking wooden doubts and nothing but darkness in front – Can’t see three feet out. I know melancholy like an anvil pressed upon my chest while laying down, just just slightly unbearable weight that I cannot move out from under or lift off. Melancholy crying while records spin, sunken darkness, my soul a pit of discarded emotion; I don’t want to have to deal with it. Tear spattered pillow. Depressive mechanics. Do I have a problem? Melancholy like beaded entry ways, rain falling just around my body. Gloom. Days where I relished in the sadness and put this emotive state in a Ziploc bag, put it in the fridge overnight and marinaded in it. The longer I sit, the more I become it. Wasn’t until my soul started to buck under it like taming a wild stallion on horseback did my minor movements start to give me air to breathe, a life to live again. Because each day is different, and I am still bucking, and once in awhile I will fall off and sink in quicksand before decided to grab a branch and haul myself out, or better yet – ask for help by passersby. People in my life whom I love, who love me. I grab their hands. I am still here, trying not to let the melancholy define me, but knowing it has made me who I am.