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!
