The Thing We Call Passion: Melancholy

There are moments, there are days, there are weeks when I am filled with the deepest melancholy. As if the only feeling my simple soul recognizes is the tender sadness that floats among the quiet.

The wild thing inside of me, with the flowing hair and eyes deep as an ancient well, hungers and demands to be fed. Only satiated by the most tragic and heart-bending tales and whispers.  

It can be exhausting. Exposed and turned about by this wild thing. Every whim and request carefully examined for the thread of self-destruction it so very likely holds.

But alas, there is nothing that can be done. Except to surrender and feed the thing what it so desperately craves. Crying hot tears of sorrow to placate, if only momentarily.

And you're left feeling spent. The wild thing all consuming until it's gone. Leaving you hollowed out and not unpleasantly empty. And you can proceed, albeit cautiously. For you do not know, and it is never expected, when this wild thing will raise it's beautiful head, hungry.