Most of my life, there’s been an undercurrent of melancholy. It’s a river under a river that flows at its own rate of speed. It’s thick and heavy substance and wants me to swim down there.
I touch it with my toes, I know it’s there. It’s not harmful but I prefer to swim at the top.
So I acknowledge it and continue swimming. Not frantically – I’m not scared of the melancholy but I respect it because to allow it to win can lead me into a muddy realm that can be hard to leave when I’m tired of exploring its murky depths.