There is a certain rhythm to melancholy and it is in perfect harmony with my own heartbeats. I am in sync with the dreary days, the grey skies, the rain, the thunder and fallen leaves on the pavement. The rhythm is a soundless soundtrack, an invisible backdrop for my inner depth and the theatre it holds in there.
There is a beauty to the unspoken, like a language without words but so much more complex and advanced.
It’s where the wild things are. It’s where the edges of thoughts are not defined and blurred with dreams and unwanted nightmares.
A timeline of impulses.
A parade of desire and fear. Sometimes dancing together like Fred and Ginger.
It’s where the wild things grow. In the stillness.
Into unexpected pictures moving in the rhythm of slow motion and melancholy.