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I have fallen irrevocably and unstoppably,
Into the arms of a bleak melancholia called,
Only hope, each day it plagues me offering what I want,
Yet never once delivering on its fine promises.
Do not mistake me, good things happen in my life even,
Sometimes, things which I desire or hope for, this however,
Is never supplied by hope, but only by other means,
Such means being usually, not within my power to change.

Into the arms of this bleak melancholia called,
Hope or perhaps also longing, maybe even desire,
I now rush, though I know that with each step I damn myself,
It is no longer about what is good or pleasant, or best,
But rather only about that illusion and what it might be,
Even as I write these words and think of you I hope still.

Though that which I can hope for may well never truly be,
I am trapped, limitlessly by this, a fly in amber.
It is a sweet melancholia indeed...
My hope is still you might find the strength and the desire to leave such self appointed fate.

_Barbie_

If this concerns what I recall it concerns, a cliche could be appropriate ("better to have loved and lost...") if I was "doing" cliches,which I'm not, obviously.

I've always had mixed feelings about a feeling (yes) such as melancholia. It bares lots of resemblance to regret and regret is one of the most counterproductive and debilitating emotion out there. Yes, it works in not making the same mistake again, but so does memory. Regret is more than that, unnecessary more. But melancholia well, it channels it into something beautiful, though only covers it in brush strokes, deep down, it is still there. Imho...

*snuggles*