From a whiskey stained notebook...

Sometimes, sinking into sorrow is like sinking into a worn, memory-ridden pillow after a weary day. Lowering yourself deeper into an innately comforting mindset that permits finishing the remnants of cabernet sauvignon from the bottle during window-shaking thunderstorms while putting on that album to more vividly resurrect previous grievances.

Cathartic or self-disparaging, it doesn't matter. Instead, fully consuming oneself with melancholia as opposed to avoiding immediate moods, emotions, and circumstances produces a sense of understanding. Understanding me, in particular, and who I've always been--emotionally engrossed with depression tendencies--but truly devoted to the affective and aesthetic as a means to my own being.

In short, I'm trying to embody how 'on ne voit bien qu'avec le coeur, l'essential est invisible pour les yeux.'

"One only sees with the heart, the essential is invisible to the eyes." -St. Exupery, Le Petit Prince