Melancholy

I'm not miserable. But at the same time, I'm far from happy. It's this weakly nagging bitterness, this tired annoyance. This damn time, this foolish aspect, this strangely maddening stage of limbo. In between everything, and not moving at a noticeable enough rate to really feel it at all. The uncertainty of it all, the precarious balance in which it hangs.

It fatigues me in and of itself. Any possibly satisfactory resolution to this forced equilibrium, this unnatural stasis, lies so far in the future that it makes every moment drag, every instant seem longer than it should be. My mind overflows with various thoughts, concerning the very things that aren't around me, the things I find myself missing so badly.

I've gone into playing with hypothetical situations. I'll replay encounters, conversations, glances over and over again in my mind, consider them from every angle, see what may happen under one set of conditions, how it may come to pass differently under another. None of it is particularly relevant, and yet my mind continues to rove those corridors seemingly aimlessly, again and again and again.

All of these imagined occurrences can do nothing to change the reality that will come to pass. Ultimately, what really happens will be nothing like the hypothetical ideas I have walked through in my head countless times. But that doesn't seem to stop me from trying new ideas constantly, hoping I may hit upon an inevitable truth that the future will hold.

Or perhaps this is just me, obsessing again. Perhaps it is nothing more than my desire to stay fixated upon a given circumstance, to keep a given thought in mind so that I don't forget it, don't forget how much it means to me. This all may be nothing more than a subconscious desire to try and focus on something that so often concerns my mind.

There's still a sense of tired bitterness to it all, the soft taste of melancholy permeating every other emotion associated with it. In one aspect, it is hopelessness, the disappointment of seeing all good things end and thinking that ending to come sooner rather than later. Another aspect is the omnipresent fear of inadequacy that I seem to harbor as I do, permeating hesitation into every motion and decision of my life.

I don't want to ruin this, and by being so afraid of it, that is inevitably what I will wind up doing. There's nothing more to it, just the simple fact that I still care more than is good for me or anybody else, particularly in this given case. And that concern, my own set of emotions, is going to end up hurting me or someone else through all of this. If there's one thing I really don't like in life, it's causing this sort of pain, the deeply bitter emotional kind, to anyone, myself or others.

Perhaps the melancholy ultimately comes from knowing that there will indeed be pain, that someone will inevitably suffer.