Moments of Melancholia

Marzi at Introvert Doodles posted a list of things that made her feel melancholy. She further clarified “I think of melancholy as an inexplicable sadness, sometimes tinged by a bittersweet nostalgia”

She asked “Are any of these relatable or am I just weird?”

For me, they’re relatable in that we all have a list – just not necessarily Marzi’s list.

So what’s on my list?

Watching life from afar. Marzi called this “being up high and watching people scurry below” but I think it’s the same thing. It’s when you’re up high in a building or when you’re on a plane and suddenly the world is made up of Matchbox cars and the traffic moves like a surreal clockwork.

Related to this, SonderSonder is the realisation that each random passerby is living a life as vivid and complex as your own. If I pondered this every time I passed someone in the street I might go mad, but when I do have time to take this in, the extraordinary wonder brings melancholy.  [Which, in turn, makes me wonder if ‘sonder’ is pronounced ‘sunder’]

Old photographs and photograph albums. I’m not good with change, and photographs prove life is change. For better or worse.

Music. Not all music, but it is difficult to be specific. Some music arcs you back to a different time, some music reminds you of who you were, some music reminds you of someone you loved. Marzi got specific and made a good choice.

 

Things that are broken.

Spring cleaning. This in itself can be invigorating, but sometimes it involves letting things go.

Like Marzi’s ‘geese flying in formation’ , similarly – a murmuration of starlings.

Cacoons. Melancholia in a place where I am safe from the world, particularly during wild weather despite being ever thankful for the roof over my head.

Sunrise and/or sunset can be wonderful. It can be thoughtful, it can bring melancholy.

 

So I ask, are these relatable or am I just weird?

What’s on your list?

 

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Blog Lag

I participated in Nano Poblano knowing I wouldn’t be able to complete the challenge. Already I’m a couple of days short of success and I’m only at Day 10. And that’s okay.

I could have pushed myself and posted something trivial each day, but I decided against that. Life is particularly hectic for me at the moment and I refuse to stress about it. What upsets me more is not having the time to read my fellow bloggers’ posts.

I’ll see if I can lift my game this weekend.

Happy blogging, my friends.

And goodnight.

Nothing to Write About

Husband: Write about the cat eating his chicken wing.

Me: That’s really dull.

H: Introduce a narrative, make it interesting. How he was meant to eat it on his mat but didn’t so I had to wash the floor.

M: Wow. That is dull. I’d do better to talk about the time you punched yourself in the face.

H: And I was completely sober.

M: And you were allowed to operate machinery

H: A pulley isn’t ‘machinery’

M: It is.

H: That’s proper English?

M: It’s machine-ish.

H: See. There’s a blog post, right there.

M: You still punched yourself in the face though.

H: Shut up.

M: Just sayin’

 

 

 

 

 

Which came first?

HUSBAND: Do you want this hard-boiled egg with your salad?

ME: What egg?

HUSBAND: Umm, the one left over from Friday…

ME: But I ate that for lunch.

HUSBAND: You can’t have, it’s right here *opens palms revealing a hard-boiled egg*

ME: But it was the one in the door-compartment.

HUSBAND: No, this is the egg because because it’s just where I left it in the fridge…

[Insert lengthy description of its placement in the fridge]

[Insert realisation I ate the wrong egg]

ME: I’m going to die.

Reality Anonymous

The me you read here, is the real me.

While this is my anonymous space, I’m sure that if someone from my real world found this blog, they would recognise me.

I have a friend (also happens to be my cousin), who knows I’m here. My online friends know I’m here.

That’s it.

Sometimes I’m more me here as I share my struggles with anxiety disorder, my thoughts, quaint anecdotes, hopes and fears.

Sometimes I’m less me here as I have to contain those conversations to keep my reality anonymous.

I want to write about events in my life. I toy with changing names but still it feels too close to my heart. It feels so transparent that anyone could deduce who I spoke of. So I keep quiet. Remain vague. Deflect certain topics. Stay hidden.

Then I wonder if I’m protecting myself from strangers or people who know my reality.

Still. That’s a whole other tangent. And it’s not to imply I’d start to speak ill of people if I dropped my guard, only that sometimes I envy those who show themselves wholly with grace, kindness and confidence.

Sometimes I wish that could be me.


nanopoblano1

Day #25

Object Memories

I’ve spoken before about the stories of objects and my struggles to let things go because of their associations. Because of who owned them and who they were important to. And perhaps proving I’m not a complete hoarder, I do and try to have a clean out from time to time.

I’m thinking about having a market stall soon, to clear out some clutter and my mother is pitching in with some of her own things.

Today though, she handed me Grandma’s sewing kit to sell.

I gasped.

Mum sighed, ‘I know. And look, the handle.’

Grandad had fixed the handle. He was practical with ideas to make things better. He was a fixer. It was Grandifcation.

I took it home and stared at it. I remembered Grandma using it. I unpacked it of things Mum clearly didn’t intend to dispose of and I knew Mum hadn’t opened it. She couldn’t. She’d let the sewing box go, but the rest was too much.

Grandad died in 2004, Grandma in 2012

It’s still raw.

What was left in the sewing kit was unremarkable and yet these buttons and spools of cotton panicked me. I feared they were important to Grandma and I did not know it. There were two dried rose buds and I wondered if they were from a wedding. Should I keep them?

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This is the hardest part. Trying to reconcile objects with heartache. Trying to convince yourself that the memories matter more.

But it’s hard.

The next person who inherits these things will know even less, will care even less. And while this is life and perhaps even how things should be a lump forms in my throat and my eyes ache with unshed tears.

Strangely, Grandma was the most unsentimental person I’ve ever known but knowing that doesn’t make this any easier. Though, Grandad was the opposite. They were an odd couple.

I miss them.

I miss them muchly.


nanopoblano1

 

Materialistic

My proclivity to collect things panics me at times.

At the top of this list – I worry I’m materialistic. I worry that my anti-materialistic beliefs are hypocritical owing to the plethora of stuff in my house.

Materialistic

I don’t feel I’m money-oriented,  I don’t feel excessively concerned with material possessions.

I like to think I’m a protector of objects.

Which is a worry.

My concern sounds excessive.


 

nanopoblano1Team Tiny Pepper! GO TEAM!