A mysterious wind comes by and whispers to me, to look over, and for a few moments. I am so confused, my mind struggling, drifting back to the day when I  saw this prophet, this mystical creature, standing forlornly in front of his collapsed barn, in this same space, taking this same walk, again and again. Is it real? Did I see it?  Was I really so helpless as to be swept away as these winds grew and hissed and enveloped me and picked me up and carried me away into a different world through clouds of birds crying out to me, praying for me, watching me rush past?

And so I felt a familiar shiver up my spine,  and the sadness entered my soul, a melancholia so deep and beautiful and fragile that I thought my spirit would shatter into a million crystal pieces, sparkles in the moonlight burning bright, then fading.

Do you notice my happiness and joy in pointing towards beauty and light?

Is it true that our fate – all of our fates – is to turn into light itself?

This melancholia is my old friend, discovered by the boy who curled up in his bed,

knees up to his chin, and bobbed and swayed in a rolling blue sea filled with tears.

It comforts me, washes my soul clean, loves and caresses me, then slips away,

through some secret door.

Do you know that is all right to be sad sometimes,

when ghosts and spirits paint our feelings?

It is essential for the heart’s celebration,

of the glory of life. For the happiness to come.

Could you slip some magic into the sounds we make,

and pour them into the earth’s troubled ears?