You said melancholy, I said Chopin; a poultice you could put on pain. Dark notes held by beauty in a soft hand. Not cry-your-eyes-out, slumped in blurs of despond. But clear-eyed chords; elegiac philosophy carried on rivers of soul. Comfort for the bloody business of loss, the carnage of having what is as close to you as your own limb, lopped. The nocturnes lasso darkness with light; ever-widening stories to which your tale belongs. The simple peace when pain is consented to. Silos of silence to sink into.
: meditations on melancholy
Anne M Carson