A revolution can be neither made nor stopped. The only thing that can be done is for one of several of its children to give it a direction by dint of victories.

 Napoleon Bonaparte

Melancholia

There’s a certain kind of sadness that doesn’t shout. It doesn’t scream or cry out for help. It’s the kind of sadness that sits beside you like an old, familiar friend, whispering nothing at all. The pit of despair, where no one can hear you scream.

The untouched coffee.
The unwashed hair.
That sinking feeling caught in the pit of your chest and throat.

It’s waking up and immediately yearning to go back to sleep, not out of tiredness, but because consciousness feels like a burden. It’s the aching quiet of being alone

Melancholia doesn’t come with reasons that make sense. It drifts in on a cloudy morning, settles like dust on your things. It makes everything feel boring. Like the colors have dulled. Like your memories are wrapped in fog. Even joy feels like it’s echoing from a place too far away to reach.

You won’t stay here forever. The sky does clear. It always will

"In that dark place, there's no such thing as optimism."