A cloud of melancholy set afloat above a life of routine. The same words, sounds, colors seemed to make up the daily, igniting fear in a heart that craved movement. A search for brand new endings shadowed a constant series of familiar beginnings. To and fro, the mind swayed between the uncertainty of satisfaction and the certain stillness.
Does stillness mean abatement? Could the cloud of melancholy instead be a stroke of luck? A blessing of time? A measure of evolvement? A chance to take a moment?