When my mourning manifests into melancholia, the realization sinks in that I can’t be with you. In every sentence you say, every kind gesture you make, I will feel anguish because I cannot be with you in a way that I want to.
When my melancholia pitfalls into reality, I see things in a nuanced light. Perhaps you’re better off as being a manifestation in my mind – the further you are from me, the better you tend to be. The closer you get to me, the more my heart aches.
Perhaps you’re all I need, but perhaps you’re not. Perhaps you’re better off existing as an illusion, one in which I am happy when I am with you and ignorant of reality swirling around me. Because when I do actually try to connect with your mind, you turn cold. When I try to grow close to you, you push me away.
Because the truth is, you turn my mourning into melancholia.
My illusion of you is my muse for my poetry and for my prose. My illusion of you is my burning desire to create the most extravagant romanicization of a story based upon not who you are, but pieces of who you are.
Perhaps your existence within my life exists as a pathway, critical as a stepping stone for my journey, but not the purpose for my journey’s end.
Perhaps I only long for you when I cannot have you, I only feel a need to be with you when we cannot stand one another, I only desire you when you are out of arm’s reach.
My mourning manifests into melancholia, and the reality sets in that my body burns because wanting you pains me and yet holding onto you makes my heart ache.
Perhaps my melancholia doesn’t want to let you go, the image, the muse of you that I have, in fear of ruining you. I want you keep you afar from my reality – our existences clash beyond anything I can comprehend. Your world of practicality, sensibility, and stoicism exists within the contrast of my world of passion, empathy, and undying hope.
You don’t belong in my reality. My reality doesn’t make me feel like I’m unlovable. My reality doesn’t consist of promises that are constantly shattered and words dripping with tar disguised as honey.
Our being together only thrives as a fantasy, a deep desire. For as much as I wanted you to be my reality, I cannot help but feel that our being together will slowly but surely divulge into a battlefield. I am not prepared for the day where the very thought of you anguishes me. Although, I feel that may already be the case.
You are meant to remain as an illusion: the pinnacle of what-ifs, hopes, and died out desires. And so, my mourning manifests into melancholia.