Just now, I had intended to write of the academic failings I have hitherto suffered. Then I remembered a friend telling me that in all my writings there always seem to pervade a melancholic air. “Emo” was the precise word he used; which is really just the colloquial equivalent of “melancholy”. And so just as I was about to transcribe my thoughts, to mourn the failings of my ambitious self, as so often and naturally I do, I paused. Have I unknowingly trapped myself in a mire of self-loathing? Such that each time I put in words the evils that debilitate my soul, they grow only more powerful. I have not purged them, but only defined them; given them a sturdier, more lasting form, upon which they may go about their malevolence with greater importunity. Reasonably, I ought to write more optimistically, to take gallant strides across the canvas than to drag a pair feet to which I have attached immense shackles. Ah, but is melancholy not the most charming of emotions? It captivates the heart in so different a manner from happiness, love, kindness, or any other tepid emotions. It is one of the greatest beauties in life, but also one of the most dangerous.