Melanchaholic - Blog Posts

In madness and in magnetic beauty, in glory and in melancholy.

Anneshwa Paul / A melancholic December morning

In the echoes of my being reside the shattered pieces of yesterday, yearnings of today, and curiosity of tomorrow. In the lonely existence of this moment, the echoes get louder in the vacuum of my brain.

-Anneshwa

Gorgeous photo by @marinalaurel 💛

Moscow metro

Why's everything so heavy?

Was I really a bad person for you?

varsity football you tried so hard for, it'll always be my oversized jersey you'll be fit for. you asked if i wanted to write songs together, what at the risk of pooling in our blood and then stopping to realize the handwriting could've been better? the mountain air smells like you, your fingerprints run down my back along with my bangs over the sink. will you be picking oranges or blueberries the next time I see you? maybe by then I'll finally feel the same crinkles around your eyes, yours will, however be much deeper, how could I ever catch up? maybe we'll have one last walk together, you can tell me of the serenity you find in studio Ghibli movies I'll never watch and you can brush my hair while I wait for another season to cut them off. I think maybe the Siamese twins survived in another lifetime but you, please don't be a stranger in this one, even when your footsteps haven't touched our roads in years.

Black Sea, Sochi

Intricate Desires by me~

𝙸 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎,

𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚊 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝,

𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚟𝚘𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛,

𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚛𝚎,

𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍,

𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚢 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚝𝚑 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎,

𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚖𝚢 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚊𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚘𝚠𝚗,

𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚙𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚢 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢 𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚍.

────•°𝜗𝜚°•.────

The heart goes cold. The heart grows old. The repetition of moments be it trembling or joyous. The heart loses it all in the end.

sun dust spinning around us

an ache I used to feel, once

just cause it got the best of me don’t mean I’ll keep on thinking it through

Or let myself sit any longer in this abandoned room

-s’s.

Estoy perdiendo el tiempo... Yo te quiero para toda una vida y tú para un momento.

”Just because someone else could deal with the problem easier doesn’t make it less worse.”

You know, when you have like a huge problem and are just suffocating from it, and then look to other people who don’t have the problem because they’re better than that or simply could deal with it easily,

well

It all just looks like your own problem isn’t that great and you are possibly just doing something wrong or not good enough.

i learned, that this doesn’t mean that it’s less important. It’s like having skills. The one can do something what others can’t, and reversed. The one has a fear, the other not. And if you have a for you difficult problem it’s totally okay. Life isn’t easy and sometimes you have to accept that you have this problem. If you can’t deal with it on your own, get some help. I also learned that when you bottle it up and think that you maybe shouldn’t get help, you or the problem aren’t worth enough or other reasons, it will just get worse. It may look like a hint of weakness, but it’s actually strength since it’s pretty hard to get themself to the convince of needing help. Only rarely you can do it on your own.

The thought written down in big and thick is my own.

Forget the People

The news having spread quickly and having reached the last poor, unemployed soul, a miserably thin crowd came up to Mr Dis App’s door. As he walked out with his humble luggage, they overwhelmed him.

He had thought he had braced himself against the jeering and scolding and ridiculing. But the judgmental people were shouting wishes of safe passage, the cynics wailed without any comment and his loving mother said her heart was breaking for him.

Nothing too predictable but still, all acceptable from people with no fate and spirit. This would be, Dis App pondered, a gesture unconserved.

He had one backpack, one messenger bag and--what he knew no one would know is a piece of luggage to his new life--a watch.

“Where is Scott?” he asked himself.

But he knew, fate is no mirage, it would not dissipate if he blinked or looked away.

And the used car was indeed parked at the end of the street.

Cottages with unmanaged surroundings. Weeds and poppies all the way to the city limits.

My composition

The art of love In an artist's realm where colors blend, A tale unfolds, a heart's lament. A student of art, brush in hand, Dreamt in hues across canvas spanned. In the midst of learning and creative flare, He met a beauty beyond compare. A model, a student of the mind's deep maze, Her chestnut eyes set his heart ablaze. Her hair, a cascade of autumn's gold, Like Ginkgo leaves, in nature's hold. Together they wandered, under maple red, Shared silent looks, unspoken words said. In the studio, where light softly fell, He painted her essence, a captivating spell. Each stroke, a testament to love's tender grace, On canvas, her image, time couldn't erase. Beneath the maples, they played their game, Chess pieces moved, as feelings became. In each move, a dance of minds and heart, A perfect picture, a living art. But time, like tides, ebbs and flows, And with it, a change, as the north wind blows. She traveled to Italy, for heart's integration, Leaving behind, more than a nation. Under Tuscan sun, her heart found another, Leaving the artist, her love to smother. A letter arrived, with words so cold, Telling of a new love, bold. The artist, with heart in shattered display, Felt the colors of his world turn gray. Under the maples, where once they stood, He mourned a love, misunderstood. Now, the chessboard lies empty, pieces alone, Under the maples, where red leaves have flown. His brush strokes the canvas, but missing the light, Of her eyes, her smile, now out of sight. In every line, a whisper of her, In every shade, memories stir. Of a love that bloomed, then slipped away, In the heart of Italy, where she chose to stay. The maples still stand, witnesses to sorrow, To a love that promised, but couldn't borrow, Time from fate, from destiny's hand, Leaving the artist in a lonely land. So, he paints, under skies less bright, Capturing memories in fading light. Under the maples, he stands alone, With only echoes of a love once known. In his heart, a melancholy song, For a love that felt so right, yet went so wrong. Under the maples, with leaves of red, He treasures the love, in his heart and head.

Sunday evening In Sunday's dusk, a youthful poet's scorn, Where childhood's Sabbath stretched a timeless span, Now traps me in its melancholic yawn, Awaiting Friday's eve as life began. The twilight of the week, so gray and stark, Where even crows lament on leafless boughs, My spirit echoes 'longside bark so dark, For Sunday's charm has turned to wrinkle brows. How swift the hours flee, from dawn till night, The clock's hand whirls, Monday's upon the stage, No pause to savor moments of delight, Each Sunday, a prelude to workweek's cage. The heavens weep, in fog their sorrows shroud, A blurry veil that hides the sky's deep blue, Each week I claim unready, speaking loud, Yet life, it seems, just shrugs and passes through. Here in the smoke, a cigarette alight, Awaiting time to snatch me in its dance, To whirl through days and spit me out of sight, By Friday's eve, a carcass left to chance.

The Library In the shadowed halls of the library, I tread, Echoes of wisdom, whispers of dread. A known stranger here I stand, Greeted coldly, by the guardian of this land. In my heart, a whirl of woes, Long shadows, the mind they enclose. Seeking comfort, I reach for a tome, Goethe's "The Sorrows of Young Werther" finds a home. In a chair, I sink, weary and forlorn, Turning pages, my heart is torn. Lost in Werther's torments of love, Seeking respite from the heavens above. As time in silent flight did pass, I beheld a maiden, alas. Dark hair flowing, eyes like the night, Lips crimson, a breathtaking sight. Clad in white, simple yet divine, Pink ribbons at her breast and shoulders intertwine. In her hands, a book, an escape, In this gloomy world, a marvelous shape. I watched, enchanted, as she read, Astonished how such grace, darkness could shed. How can such a delicate creature, Bring light and joy, such a liberating feature? Suddenly, she looked up, a smile she bore, Calling my name, my heart did soar. But then, a jolt, sharp and real, The illusion shattered, the dream did peel. The irritated librarian stood by, "It's time to leave," his tone was dry. Back to the grey, the life I despise, To my cold, empty dwelling. Again, I'll drown in vice to sleep, In the night's embrace, silently weep. For in that fleeting, dreamy sphere, I found solace, now disappeared.

The Man by the Window In a world so stark and dreary, Sat a man, eyes wet and weary, Staring through the pane so clear, At a realm that seemed so eerie. His thoughts a constant echo, Of the horrors down below, "World's so cruel, so full of woe, Does happiness still have a go?" But then one day, in a window yonder, Sat a girl, making him ponder, With a smile, like magic, fonder, Amidst this world, how does she wander? Day by day, he'd watch her grace, Lost in thought, her peaceful face, How does she, in this rat race, Hold her own, keep up her pace? But as days turned into nights, Her bright spark saw fewer lights, Her once joyous, carefree flights, Now mired in internal fights. He wondered, as he saw her wane, What caused her this growing pain? In her eyes, the weight of rain, A silent scream, a hidden chain. On a day, when the skies did weep, He saw her tears, the hurt so deep, She opened the window, took the leap, And silence reigned, making hearts skip a beat. But did she survive that fall so steep? Was there someone her soul to keep? Or did she succumb to life's cruel sweep? The answers, my friend, are buried deep. It's for you to decide her fate, For life's stories can twist and gyrate, Hold yours tight, before it's too late, For we master our own slate. And as the night began to wane, He closed the curtains, hiding the pain, Life moves on, it's never the same, But memories, forever remain.

just moved out of my college dorm. crazy how nine months of my life can be stuffed into five boxes.

Follow the light

I will never take a picture that is better than this one. Ever. Nothing will ever compare. Might as well stop shooting now bc I've taken the picture of a lifetime

No cap.

A tired tourist / Prague 📍

Spiderweb clouds against the moonless sky.