Nightly Melancholy and Its Residual Mundane Implications

Weekly Diary Entry

As the Night furthers its usual course,

I felt them getting closer and closer:

Those Thoughts, this Heaviness,

This Bleeding of my Heart.

They tempt with the promise of emotional truth,

A further understanding of my elusive Self—

Yet the more I follow this feeling which inhabits me,

The less I find the need to have more Nights like these.

The thought of having been disconnected from my heart for so long,

It leaves me disoriented and bitter and hopeless;

What is Being for this Heart and why hasn’t it become more obvious,

As time continues to make its course, unconcerned?

What’s inside and why has it not been true from the very beginning;

These thoughts pierce right through—they leave me bleeding

And Raw open and sore and aching and hopeless,

As I wonder if I’ll ever feel fine after being this torn open.

And yet the mundane forces me to pick all of my pieces,

To try to make them stick and appear as pure as they once did,

When in fact it only makes me resemble a reassembled monster:

Thus I pretend Death wasn’t becoming of me a few hours ago.

Let us smile and keep these feelings under wraps,

And keep pretending some more;

But I promise you, this Nightly Melancholy will visit again,

And perhaps one day you will see me no more.

This story is part of a collection of poems, short stories and introspective reflections of my creation, called “Grimoire of a Weirdo”.