Fiction

Fiction: This melancholic longing.

When I am finally alone, in the corners of the night, there is an overwhelming sadness that comes over me. This wave of emotions just creeps in, with no warning at all… I welcome it softly, as I have learnt to do. The masters  call it melancholy… I have learnt to love it too, just like they did. No matter how deep and heartbreaking this tearful existence of my longing soul takes me into, I have learnt to let it sweep over me completely. There is no hiding from these deep feelings at all. They have to be felt and experienced. And by now, since they happen often, I am used to it.  Again and again, I am taken into this high flight of sorrow, or into the depths of this longing of the soul. I sigh… I let it take me wherever it wants.

Outside, I can feel the vast unknown world swirling and shifting ever so slightly to the hollow sounds of Claire de Lune that have been playing on repeat… that’s the only song I feel like listening to, when these emotions come gushing in. I hear those sweet chords I have grown to know so well and somehow, as if by magic, they make this empty feeling of longing (that comes from my soul) completely spin on itself, shifting it around into something even deeper and stronger. They complement each other… my melancholic mood and those beautiful chords. It’s like they are made for each other. Whenever the song plays, I feel like this is its purpose, like it was created to understand this emotion, and only this emotion… like Claude Debussy, knew, that without it, it would not be possible to overcome such feelings.  I wonder how many nights of melancholia and longing he must have felt, to create such a wonder. Tears stream down my face softly…. I look at the window at the rooftops of all those lonely buildings, and I notice that on top of them, there is no moon, just some distant ever fading glittering stars. After a few minutes that seem more like endless hours, finally, sleep takes over me and I drift myself into bed.

The following day I wake up in soft spirits. As I open my eyes and curl out of bed, there are butterflies flying in my veins. Whatever had taken over my soul the day before has long gone. My heart whispers: I am alive…

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