My misery nourishes a part of me that cannot be sustained by anything else. Yet I know it’s killing me, as much as a smoker can be assured that they are shortening their life with their habit, I see that my habit is draining the life out of me. Yet I revel in it. Refusing to give it up. Why? Is that me talking, or is it the misery. Has the misery been around so long that we are no longer two entities, but one in the same fused by time.
Although melancholia hasn’t killed me, but I’m so saturated in it that others can smell it on me. Like a smoker who is shrouded in the stink of nicotine, I am surrounded by a cloud of despair of my own making and my own reparation.
I could fix this if I tried. Like the smoker could quit. We could both quit if we wanted to. We could be given all the support in the world but it would still rest on our shoulders to take that first step, to give up our vice. I don’t want to take that step. I like the blanket of my misery – the security; and there is no patch for that.