A lone child is walking with a baseball in one hand and a transistor radio in the other. He is walking towards the yard down the road from his home. Alone he walks past the house where the girl he secretly is obsessed over lives, hoping she will catch a glimpse of him and run out to profess her love for him.

A soft breeze is blowing, leaves are floating all around, the birds are congregated on a leafless tree singing their individual songs as the autumn tries in vane to blow on in earlier then it is permitted.

An older man is smiling, the lone child is picking up his pace and he runs into the arms of the man; the man with the smile and the stetson hat. In this man’s arms he feels protected, safe from the melancholia that floats above his every step, like the birds floating above him, singing songs of sadness and broken hearted lives.

Thickened darkness descends, the sunrise sets way too soon and the clocks begin to stop moving. There is a room with a bed where the boy dreams, of another life, in another time, where wishes are granted and words ring true. Where his forever melancholia is blown away by the warm touch of her hand, the soft sound of her lips…

Where the heart beats are steady and provide the rhythm for the old men walking together, by the lake outside the old courthouse where a tattered but proud flag still sits atop a rusted flag pole. You can see the clock is frozen at six thirteen and the boy knows it must have some meaning but it is lost on him.

The lone child tosses his ball in the air as he lays on his bed. He is thinking about the girl living down the road, wondering if she knows his name and if she ever sees him walking past her house. With his ball, his radio and the birds flying above him.

His door is closed and he closes his eyes and feels the tears within, hidden inside of him. He is forever melancholy and missing someone, some thing, some where.

Forever melancholia, like a never ending opera being played out in his head; broken glass he walks carefully barefoot, searching for that open door which can lead him to the place he loves best.

Confusing words fall down on paper and create an illusion of a young boy from another time and place – as a man he still walks down that road and he still has the ball in his hand. He thinks about his old wishes and the old man who once smiled his way, in the stetson; he had the power within his embraces to shelter him from any storm.

“Paint me a picture, of my old town when the house down the road was still there and the clocks seem to never turn. Show me what it once was just to have proof of its actual existence…”

Its all gone now – forever melancholia.

 

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