Savouring this delightful Sunday afternoon with a heavy dose of melancholy. Why do things like softly rousing to the fluttering lashes of a lover, reaching for his inert body, and imbibing the possibilities of a warm spring morning make me feel so happy, full, sad, and empty all at once? Is it because this season, the feeling it conveys, the meaning it embodies, only serves to remind me of the regrettable transience of life? Events become memories faster than I have time to process them. I look at the eggs frying in the pan, thinking about how breakfast will soon amount to a pile of dirty dishes. The conversation we are having now over our black tea will soon be replaced by a quiet, shadowy room filled with my own thoughts. Perhaps even the love I am feeling will dissipate into something strange, unrecognizable, and unsettling.

So much melancholy for such a beautiful day.