The Soft Weight of Melancholy

I’ve mastered the art of isolation—

a quiet craft shaped by time and silence.

And yet, I ache for connection.

I come alive in laughter,

in the warmth of familiar voices,

in the gentle rhythm of shared moments.

But still, I have to drag myself into the light.

Somehow, solitude became safer than showing up.

I don’t always understand why.

My heart means well—

but my follow-through falters.

Why am I like this?

Where did my spark go?

Melancholy didn’t barge in—

it slipped through the cracks, soft and unseen.

Now it sits beside me,

as I drift between days with no clear direction.

I shine when I’m needed,

when there’s something to carry,

someone to care for.

But when the room is quiet and the task is gone,

so am I.

It’s as if purpose is the only thing that wakes me.

I don’t know what this place is called,

but I know I can’t stay here much longer.