LUCK VERSUS THE LACK OF IT

Some people are lucky. And not even in a prosperous way either, but the fact that, by nature, they are not predisposed to sadness. Some people do not have bombs perpetually lodged in the throat cavity, waiting for a swallow to detonate. I am not like them. Since birth I have been inclined towards melancholy, drawn to the deep and the dark and the blue. It enchants me—what can I say? Something about it invites me—this sadness, the tendency to want to mourn over everything and nothing. Sadness is a master of hospitality. She always has a bed ready for me, a meal prepared and adorned at the table. I’m her only guest, and I’ll eat up anything she serves.

You can’t fix me. I know that with all your heart you want to—more than anything—the exact same caliber at which you love me. But no matter what you do, you cannot alter my chemistry, the microscopic anomalies that make me who I am. You can’t cure a person of their tragedy if they are what makes it a tragedy to begin with.

You cannot cure me, beautiful boy. You could buy me all the time in the world but there still wouldn’t be enough for me to change. My state is permanent. Forever fixed in one strange position, statuesque and unmovable, like enforced law, like a god of my own right.

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