On Feeling Melancholy

This is one tragic world, carrying a shadowed face with faintly eyes through empty nothingness. No meaning is to be extracted from the void beyond the sky, no truth awaits the sailor on his lonely journey toward the end of endings. A glimpse of misery, everlasting in the eye of the beholder, arises on the mind's horizon. Yet misery shall not be to solemnly remain, gazing at a broken universe. There lies a deeper wisdom within suffering than blunt despair.

The knowledge of the melancholy notion is to comprehend what we're not likely to concede. That life's, alas, unfair, inherently opposed to the idea of just divison. From this perspective, misery seems sound to dwell upon, yet is the path afore you split; one leading into empty, ample darkness, one lighting up a spark in all-consuming gloom. This spark goes by the very name of hope, which, if nothing else, yields nourishment for our soul's so fragile sanity. 

And therein lies the melancholy wisdom: That, in all those unfair facets of existence, it's never sinister enough to tear the light apart. Our will precedes the darkness, our will to be aware is what shapes these sparks of light. As they break through the shell, they recognize, reflecting on each other. Bonding. Speaking.
You are not alone. Your suffering is not to be endured solely, much more shared among us all. Sorrow's universal, it belongs to every creature, rendering the suffocation felt beforehand mute.

Compassion grows as you let the wisdom of the melancholy notion flourish. Anger fades away, dissipates alongside misery and desperation. Mere sadness is what will reside; as fundamental as the waves on their eternal journey towards death and renaissance, it cannot vanish, should not even. Sadness creates meaning for mirth and cheerfulness, merging serendipity into their fabric.

This is one tragic world, carrying a shadowed face with faintly eyes through almost empty nothingness. 
Almost.