The Weeping

There’s a great quote from my favorite book series that I’ve been recently reading that talks about an event called, ‘the Weeping’:

‘He recognized what was happening to him, this melancholy, this sense of despair. It had taken him often when he’d been younger, most frequently during the weeks of the Weeping, when the sky was hidden by clouds.’

It is in these lines that I felt a chord resonate with me. An idea of melancholy that runs it’s course falling amongst the ebbing rain. I remember moments I’ve had, where spats of melancholy have come and gone, nothing as harsh as true sadness, but days, just days, or sometimes even hours where it’s hard to go through the motions and I empathized with the character.

I understood how the Weeping felt for me. Not a literal downpour of water, but a slow cascade of sullen emotions that I feel sometimes.

I was reminded of how upbeat I am too, but also about how complex we as people are.

Going back to my old work I remember how I used to dwell on masks, writing often as a young adult, about how we as people wear masks to fit specific circumstances in our lives.

But I think I now realize that the masks that I show people are protection for both them and myself. Sometimes we as people need to feel. We need to allow our emotions to run their course, droplets leading to streams, streams to rivers and rivers back to the source. Going back to my old work

It’s a cycle, much like our lives. What has happened before, can and probably will happen again. How I feel may sometimes go against the ‘norm’ and I think we as a society aren’t very well equipped to deal with melancholy.

Its this idea of politeness in society.

An idea of politeness being inherently a set of rules we follow to go about our day, a means to an end.

Do not misunderstand, I am not saying we are incapable of sympathy and oft times empathy, but good advice is a burden and many people have their own center to watch over.

So I wear my mask to let my emotions ebb and flow, and I preserve the smile so easily formed upon mine lips, and if I wink and crack and tickle, perhaps you could just once remember that the dried lids of a man’s smile often run deeper than the lake of a still life.

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