Extracts From The Books I’ll Never Write 0003

Sometimes I get lost in the beauty of melancholy. Of the sadness that is ever-present in my listless thoughts. In the mellow-mess of my youth. In my past-present and present-future as I imagine it to be. A song may be playing and I will be forever lost in the circular pit of my stomach. I may see a passing of colour, and find myself moving slowly in the memory of his gaze. I may be sitting in a familiar setting, looking at the drawn out length of my days to come… and see the slowing-down and speeding-up of time – in the loneliness that characterises my life – in the leaps of faith that I will have to take – in the memories I will have to harbour – in the melancholy of my days.


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