Accustomed

The melancholy often takes me by surprise, creeping up on me after I’ve made my plans for the next couple of months. After I tell myself okay, things are good. You’ll survive. Let’s think about the future now. 

So I make plans, set them in motion, gear myself up for the months ahead. And then one morning, I wake up with an ache in my chest and a feeling of wanting to sleep forever. 

And yet, every time this has happened, the pleaser in me, the completionist in me feels the need to make good on the plans I’ve made. To fulfil the things I have committed to. Even if it was just a promise I made to myself. 

But it’s the worst time to get shit done. In the midst of this melancholy, is a sliver of self-doubt. Its whispers are further reaching than any scream. 

Its words slither their way into my psyche, manifesting in the form of vivid nightmares and realistic dreams. The line between reality and unreality begins to blur. 

I’ve begun to recognise its pattern now. I’ve learned to separate its voice from the other thoughts in my head. 

And I’ve become accustomed to riding it out, slowly doing all the things the other me has planned. 

We all work well together now.

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