There is in melancholy, the attraction of sweetness

But isn't there also, in melancholy, the attraction of a deadly gentleness?

Anguish is born like a tune whose melody gradually infiltrates and overwhelms every other sound. The disturbing regularity that characterizes it (the same hours of the day or night), once it has us in its grip, conjures up a space of absolute savagery that we cannot approach rationally. Anxiety will not be tamed. It pervades space and makes any recognition impossible; we no longer see how the horizon could open, we only see its closed line. Anguish is a death threat precisely when we should accept it as part of being mortal and therefore as part of being ephemeral—not belonging, being transhumant on this earth. It brings a slight misalignment in space and time that suddenly leaves us in the most complete disarray. The body knots itself. Then the idea comes that everything could be in vain, that there would no longer be a part to play, no longer any openings on the chessboard. 

When we are seized by the feeling that nobody will ever come to us, that this solitude will not loosen its grip on us, ever, we must still find the strength to extend our arms, to kiss, to love. To say it, to start again, to hear the whisper of that wild voice that calls you from well before your beginnings.