Another bad run-through today. Hard to do anything when your full of numbing hammer strikes from the inside; deck screws and finish nails in the leg; a cobblestone stretch of Crohn's; and now a headache from scrunching up of my face.
So what do you do? Pop a handful of pain killers, lay around, watch the Daytona 500, and get all depressed and feeling sorry for yourself because you're useless. Well, except for poking around on my computer once in a while.
But it got me to thinking about melancholy. Melancholy is a title that has achieved favorable recognition. It has the sound of loft; the outward marquee of a badge proudly worn on one's breast, having received high esteem. It is a brilliant darkness, often found in those of genius, the rest of us might pursue and emulate. But with the stardom of this one word phrase, it seems to have lost its color--its darkened gray shadows--to me, and in untasting flavor. Somewhere away from me is its meaning, its brief attempt at general theory into one general word--meaning of sorrows--reaching smallness now and only, when such things are far more grand in its vanquish of so many.
