God Of Melancholy

I whisper, “Hallelujah” to the sad sky as grey clouds open to weep. It’s one of those rainy days where the water blooms melancholia deep within my heart. An overbearing reminder of emotional depth. The tears of the sky pitter-patter, relentlessly hitting the ground before pooling and filling the cracks. These are the days most spend longing for their bed. To pull the pillow over their head, and try sleeping out the storm raging just outside their comfort zone.

I’ve always enjoyed days like today. Finding solace in my sadness seems easier on rainy days.


There is an emotional debt to be paid. Like any deity, the God of Melancholy requires some sort of sacrifice. I feel it moving through me, settling gently in my throat. I need to cry. To fill the broken cracks inside. Today, tears will fall like rain. They won’t come in loud gasps. No. The debt is silent tears that streak down cheeks before pooling on the bottom of your chin. The tears weight growing too heavy to bear as they splatter on the front of your t-shirt. The ones you dare not wipe away.

In a sense, sadness makes me feel alive. A beautiful balance. In these moments, it seems easier to shed the armor. To sit naked and bare save the tears coating my cheeks as I offer my emotional sacrifice. The sorrow blanketing my soul, providing an uneasy comfort. Filling the broken cracks. Making me whole.

The price we are willing to pay to feel alive. We all have tariffs on our soul. Mine seems to be paid with woe.

The grey clouds open themselves up, and Mother Nature bears down upon the cracked earth her soul. Many years ago, before I became a devote follower of sadness, ice settled into place. Every time I refused the rain, the ice set in place. It expanded cracks to the point not even strong whiskey could cauterize the wound left in the thawing wake. When we bottle ourselves up, we are bound to explode. Or implode, shattering like glass. Sharp shards, millions of them, broken beyond repair.

I found a way to embrace the pain. The demons dancing in my irises, only catchable by light. Melancholy births creativity. A sick twist of fate, where the saddest souls have the most beautiful of minds. We aren’t bodies, just souls and minds mired in blood and bones. Meat wagons, driven aimlessly, notching trips around the sun. The ride is taxing, a fare we have grown accustom to pay. Anything to leave our tread-marks on this thing we call life. Another trip around the sun survived.

The sky opens up as light shines through. The God of Melancholy dissipates and eventually will evaporate away. I sigh, staring at the sky. I have paid my price. Muffled weeping to match the sorrow from on high. Until we meet again, Grey Skies.

“Hallelujah” I whisper one last time. The taste of salty tears cooling dry lips. In my sadness I feel all right. In my sadness, I am reminded I am alive.



Briton Underwood is a writer. His byline includes big publications and small publications. What’s important to him are his words, not where he’s been published.


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