Tuesday, October 20, 2015


A lonely wheelchair in a Viennese park.
October 2013
Transition season. Likely April. My mother and I were sitting in the parking lot of Gregg's. It was a frequent haunt at the time. Its death-by-chocolate cake, which incited everything but death due to the amounts of chocolate, was siren enough to motivate wallet emptying.

We were waiting for the lunch hour. The door would be unlocked, and much pleasure would ensue. Another car sat dormant, awkwardly angled near us, not quite paralleled. Another car pulled up. Children emerged from our neighbor. The new car parked. What would likely be the grandparents skipped out of the vehicle with nigh the same spirited steps as the youngsters.

A month shy of 19, I burst into tears. This was a frequent occurrence. My mother, still, was always surprised. "What's wrong with you?" she asked. She didn't ask cruelly or judgmentally, just out of shock.

"It's so beautiful. The love between them." In an instant, I empathized with the love I shared with my paternal grandparents, imagined their lives together. Their fondness, grown deeper by clear usual distance between them.

I notice the sadness and the joy all at once. Happy memories cannot be unrelated to slight or intense pangs.

* * *

If I could use one word to describe my existence in adult life, it would be solitude. Many occasions see me walk away and into bed. I am very cat like. I relish being curled up without a book, without a phone to peruse through. I could sleep or think endlessly. Sleep and daydreaming distract me just as much as phones and Internet and conversation. Problematic? Absolutely.

I've tossed and turned throughout my young adult life wondering if it's depression, if it's a manifestation of OCD (which I actually have). I've come to a conclusion, in spite of there being no PhD to my legal or creative names. I am a melancholy soul.
A feeling of pensive sadness, typically with no obvious cause:an air of melancholy surrounded himhe had an ability to convey a sense of deep melancholy and yearning through much of his workat the center of his music lies a profound melancholy and nostalgia
And, yes, sometimes I have been like Kerstin Dunst in Lars Von Trier's Melancholia film from 2011. Minus the wedding dress... and it wasn't on an estate.

The glass tapers between half-full and half-empty, always. I am hyper aware of truth and honesty. It's perhaps why I can't stand hashtags and endless serious selfies (Like, a hashtag is a categorization, NOT an explanation, THANK YOU). It's why I struggle to maintain consistent blogs of a thematic nature. Because, in reality, nothing is truly constant except existence and a work schedule, et cetera. Tangible, non sub-textual things. Creativity, life, and one's perception of its quality cannot be consistent, really. Not so consistent that I'm going to be #blessed every day.

Am I overthinking? Many argue yes. My mother most certainly says yes. I just think I am being inquisitive.

I'm pretty sure it's the reason why I spend lots of time alone. I spend more time sipping lattes with haphazard leaf designs and reading books than I do going to bars and having spontaneous adventures. OKCupid profile setups are a struggle bus because I don't photograph myself often...and selfies are frowned upon in the legit online dating world (um...I'm fairly certain none of it's legit, whatsoever).