eleven degrees

i am a sucker for melancholy.

i love stories that weigh much of sadness.
my choices almost always exclude stories with happy endings.

maybe because such dismal stories ring truer ---
as nothing lasts in this world.
happy endings are not really endings, they are beginnings.
but then again, despairing endings can also be seen as beginnings...

so, with nothing really settled, i still would opt for despondence.

crying brings such a relief that when a certain mood strikes me, i have 3 readily available movies i'd watch over and over:
1. The Royal Tenenbaums
2. Lost in Translation
3. 5 Centimeters Per Second
no, i don't watch them in a particular order, and definitely not watch them in one sitting.

i am reading again.

i visited one bookshop after my visit to the doctor and found J.D. Salinger's Franny and Zooey.
(even when i am not reading, i still enjoy going to bookshops. and if a book interests me, in one way or another, i'd buy it.)
i distinctively remember the staff, on getting my payment, telling me, "I just finished reading that one. A very good read, I'd say."

it turned out to be more than a good read:
i fell in love with the Glass family.
it somehow cast a spell on me and i'm back to reading ---
while waiting for the train, on the train, at home, even at my desk at work during lunch time.

today, on my way to work, i read "For Esmé – with Love and Squalor".
while reading it for the first time, i had the feeling of having read the story before. but i could not remember when, how, or if at all.
it moved me to melancholy as surely as eating marshmallows make me lose my appetite for a proper meal.