I have made repeated attempts to move on with my life since your arrival 23 September but cannot. A change of venue, that of diet, even new clothes have afforded me but a frivolous and temporary elevation of spirits. Accordingly, as I am thus paralyzed by a most profound sense of melancholia, I lie in bed, starring at a black sky, and pine anew for what little contentment life once offered up. A mellow and simple joy I owned before your decision to inhabit my home, my body, my spirit.
You have gripped me by the nape of my neck and refuse to release me. My begging for mercy is for naught. You are a wily mistress, one whose cruel hold is that of iron. In complete control of all that my eyes now behold, you pull me steadily backward into times past. Times that, I believed, were gone and forgotten. Nearly forgotten but for a brief remembrance triggered, in strange and bitter irony, by that briefest recollection of fleeting happiness. You, Sorrow, force upon me the anguish of your undeniable existence, your penetrating essence. You have stolen my present, sabotaged my future, yet you say nothing....
Who, really, are you?