Sunday Melancholy

“I can barely conceive a type of beauty in which there is no melancholy.”
― Charles Baudelaire

“I won’t try to explain it; we all know how it feels. It can fill a room in every corner of the world. It doesn’t matter where you are, it always comes, especially on Sundays… I guess that’s why some people hate Sundays.”

I had a great start to my Sunday. A cup of coffee and a surprise visit from Elvis, the magnificent pitbull with a beautiful brown & white spotted coat, made my day. He’s grown so much since I last saw him, but he still acts like a puppy. I’ve always felt a special connection with him, considering him one of my soulmates. After I lost track of him when I travelled to Italy, his unexpected visit made me incredibly happy. I was even willing to go for lunch or a walk to the beach. After all the dogs left for their Sunday walk, I went to my room and felt a touch of melancholy, not in a bad way, but just making its presence known.

As a child, I always tried to avoid dealing with my complex feelings. It’s not just sadness, but something deeper that lingers for hours. It’s a constant reminder that nothing is permanent, including my existence. Sundays at my grandmother’s house always felt too short, and I never wanted to leave. I had to go back home to get ready for school the next day. Many years later, I spent time in one country before moving on, making friends and then saying goodbye. I’ve had to start over multiple times. I feel like I’ve lived many different lives within a single lifetime, and I fear the end of things and life itself, even though I know it’s inevitable. This feeling of melancholy is like being stuck in philosophical quicksand, where the more I struggle to move forward, the more I seem to sink.

During my early years, I was in a relationship with an artist who was considered trendy. We used to travel to visit museums and exhibitions. On one of those trips, he told me, “You need to learn that attachment is not good. Being clingy looks bad in a woman.” I couldn’t fully grasp the essence of his words and what he was trying to convey. Can we detach from our feelings, from people, from situations? How is that even possible? He was intelligent and always seemed to find a way to avoid taking responsibility. Years later, in China, I learned to master detachment, yet melancholy never completely disappeared; so it wasn’t just about attachments. It was still a deeper feeling that had even shaped my personality. I would experience intense emotions, overthink, have vivid dreams, anxiety, doubts, and struggle with impostor syndrome.

In my early twenties, I worked as a reporter for a cultural news channel. I was sent to interview Eduardo Millán, a poet who had just won a prestigious award. Although I was unfamiliar with his work, my boss instructed me to bring him to the radio station. During the journey, he asked me about my favourite author, and I randomly mentioned Pessoa, although I had never read any of his books. This encounter left me feeling ashamed of my behaviour, prompting me to start reading poetry. I discovered that I could relate to the emotions expressed in the verses of poets like Pessoa, Neruda, and Plath, and began to appreciate melancholy from a more creative perspective.

There is a bit of melancholy in every person. Some people wish to explore it, while others avoid it by watching football on a Sunday afternoon. Why should we feel more? Aren’t the problems we face at work or in our families enough? After all, we live in a world full of emotions expressed on social media and we are always waiting for our reactions.

Melancholy goes deeper than just a temporary emotion – it is an inherent force that drives us to be creative and to work on understanding ourselves better. It is the force that has kept me alive. Yes, Sundays are like sunsets – we surrender to their beauty and don’t want them to end. Art is perhaps the most subtle way to deal with melancholy. I always go back to poetry to seize the day. Soon, it will be dark, and I can stop for now…