Melancholia

Once was a boy named Fortune.

And he was afraid.

Why he was so, none could tell.

Fear, omnipresent fear wherever he turned.

Leering at him from every corner.

A bilious, foreboding mist, suffusing every fibre within, reaching every crevasse.

Overpowering what may have held on before, taking over.

At other times, an indomitable wall before him.

As if challenging him.

He was afraid.

Afraid to look here, to look there.

To go here, to go there.

Everywhere he turned, it was there.

Unceasing in its pursuit, reaching out to him at every opportune moment, cackling away.

Harrying him even at the very best of times, those verdurous, light-filled moments we all cherish and hold so dear.

One would think this a contest, a duel to wrest complete control.

Oh no, this was no battle between equals.

Even the smallest of victories held a sour aftertaste.

Even on the verge of overpowering it, a vestige would remain.

To seep in again and conquer, as it always did, like a breach in a mighty hull or a tear in a waterskin.

Time didn’t matter, it could always wait.

For as long as it took to take hold.

Would there be no respite for the boy?

Where it came from, who knows?

Perhaps it had always been present inside, waiting to strike.

Or maybe it came from the outside, the boy’s ill-luck somewhere or with someone.

But the boy grew strong and as time passed, he learnt.

He learnt to look up and look out.

He grappled with it, day after day, every breathing moment, such that the two came to be equals.

Sometimes he overpowers it, but fear still rears its head.

And he has come to accept it, for he realized that all is not lost.

Now he can control it.

Now he can do as he will.

Why live in fear forever?