Maudlin. Why I spend time in such a state is both a mystery and admittedly my own fault. I think too much. Things bother me. I dwell. Realization should grant power over the situation, and often does; rational emotive therapy and all that crap. However, the reality is that I’ve always felt deeply. Whatever it is cuts right to my bone. Delight, pain, rapture, despair, stillness, loss, hunger, satisfaction…. if boredom can be experienced passionately, I’ve done it. Makes for inspired artistry in times of creativity, or just a mess in the absence of muse or diversion.
So when that bittersweet sentimentality creeps in and lays heavy on my heart, it tends to settle in and stay a spell. Like a bad relationship, it’s symbiotic. We feed each other an addictive diet of romanticized sorrow that circles back and spirals around us, steeling a bond that shouldn’t be. It lurks behind my outwardly comic demeanor, visiting when I’m alone, unoccupied and unsuspecting. It colors my pallet with deep purples and midnight blues, pushing my brush into the pigment again and again to darken the circumstance.
And I know it. I feel it happening. Like watching the drama unfold in a seven hundred page sixteenth century novel, I am strangely removed, yet intimately involved, in the plot of my own life. This duality is an enigma, almost as impossible to convey as the feeling itself. Eventually, something unknown will pull me away and for a while I’ll be free. Until the next time.