Melancholy is a Part of Life

When I was 14 years old, I first knew the meaning of “melancholia.” At the same time one of my best friends was diagnosed with “melancholia.” I still remembered the paintings she drew which used the simple lines to compose something I could not understand. Her feelings became extremely sensitive and silent. She couldn’t control herself even during the classes. Probably just in that time, the fear tightly caught my throat. And then, she left to Singapore to accept therapy in the winter. The light reflected by the snow hurt my eyes and made me cry. She wrote me two short messages after she arrived in Singapore. One was that doctors said to her that what she drew was from her fantasies. She also told me she could not stop the impulse to draw, and the paintings seemed to lie everywhere on the walls and on the floors. I thought I could touch her saturnine countenance through the cold computer screen. I could see she rolled herself into a ball like a desolate hedgehog. The seat she once sat in was moved to the back of the classroom. The ashes and the memories covered the trail she left. The spring flowers began to bloom, I was aware of her leaving for several months.

I read a magazine at that time, and one of articles impressed me. The topic of it was the ice is water which dozes off.  And I wrote a comment about it: just like it, the lamentation is the mirth which is hibernating. When the last piece of ice of winter begins to melt, when the first flower of spring come into bloom, everything will be changed.

Life is just like that. Bad things, good things, all exist. People have different emotions: tears or smile, sadness or happiness, lamentation or hilarity, sweet and bitterness, loss and getting. They are all part of life. No one’s life is like the sea without waves. I was depressed by the life, and gained more about depression. I grow up.

Melancholy was once meandering river. It carried so many memories off, those restless nights; it hid so many secrets, the words I have never said; it contains so many emotions, those dropping tears. And now it is quietly lying in my hand, becoming a savage scar in my heart as part of my pride.

Recently, I received a letter from my old friend. She said she was OK now and she was not tortured by melancholia any more. I tried to write a letter to her. Sweetie, just listen to me. Everyone has his/her own scars, but they are all the past. Melancholy is like sickness. Love can heal it. As long as I hold the true power of my heart, we can fix it. The memories of melancholy will finally become the ashes in the wind. Melancholy is a part of life. We experienced, and then we grow up. This, I believe.

--Fang Fei Lin