Thoughts take shape. Formed into words.
An incessant stream of joyful peace has reduced to a puzzling drop.
Slow fog thickening.
On her knees, an unseeing crawler gropes her way.
Through this fog, her exploration manifests into writing.
Here She writes.
Melancholy makes her write.
A familiar fog she presumed gone; is back.
She knows this fog. She doesn’t know how vast it is.
But she knows what it is.
And because she knows, her melancholic mind can map its way.
The paths taken, the paths yet to be; Melancholy makes her write.
Here. An “X’. In a sea of greys. She is here.
Soon she will be there.
Where? Where the fog clears, where her heart and soul unite.
When? How? Melancholy doesn’t say ‘Now’.
She can’t see clearly but she can write lucidly.
So she writes. Melancholy makes her write.