It is a debilitating feeling that is clinging to me

Making me inert, rendering me unstrong. 

I find myself in a languid state of unravelling

The pace of unravelling so slow 

That I am not falling apart nor alarmed

But am suspended in between action and inaction

Between melancholy and dispair

Between life and the living of it. 

My heart is beating slowly

Ever so slowly: it is almost still. 

It is a peaceful almost-stillness

Except that the gentle rising of my chest feels like an effort. 

Not uncomfortable but not comfortable either. 

In fact, my entire being seems suspended

Between many dimensions

Raising questions about the futitility of the pursuit of happiness

And the equal futility of trying to escape unhappiness.

What is this feeling?

How curious its power.

It is not a strong feeling as Rage or Passion

Neigh, it is frail.

But the frailty is deceptive

It wraps itself around me

Encompassing me till there is none but nought and me.

Nought and me trapped in an endless gaze.

Ah, this Sadness! 

What a magnificent beast!

What a beauty unsurpassed!

What a companion so loyal!

It is a debilitating feeling that is clinging to me

Making me inert, rendering me unstrong. 

Leaving me in a splendid state of languid unravelling.

Ah, this Sadness!