Melancholia

She could almost feel the rain outside her window– tap, tap, tapping against it–as Mary sat in the kitchen sipping her tenth mug that morning of coffee. It was way past noon, yet she was still in her ratty bathrobe and bunny slippers. But she didn’t care. She didn’t care at all. What even mattered anymore? The axis of her being was now on trial, and who know if it would be found true and worthy?

There was nothing to be done, and try as she may to be strong, there was no escaping from the fact that she alone was the victim. Nobody would ever approach understanding these feelings. She wouldn’t let them. She felt a weightless, yet at the same time breath-taking oppression pushing down on her head and radiating throughout her heart and stomach. Her mind filtered nothing, and every thought came pouring in all at once, making her feel that the only solution was reclining her head back against the wall.

The kitchen wall was chilling, but she didn’t notice. She glanced down at her steaming cup of black coffee . . . no, not steaming . . . ice cold. Her hands felt frozen from gripping her white mug, and she stretched them with difficulty in order to release them from the grip. She felt her mind slipping away. Why must love, in all its initial promise and glory, be so desolating?

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