Monachopsis: the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place

5/28/16 (Old, but revised.)

My father told me the story of his youth
And how he’s grown old and his father has died
And how he wishes he could remember all of the moments from his “golden years”
“Those were the days, man.” He said.
And I looked up at him, teary-eyed
And thought about how sad everything feels now; even if I can find joy in certain, perfectly lit, almost too-good-to-be-real moments.
Like a photograph.
And if I’ll remember these days as my “golden years.”
And what happens if I don’t¬¬—
If everything I remember is gray and still, like a poorly lit room during a storm that’s lasted days after days after days.
And then we sit there laughing our guts out,
Like everything is okay when it’s not.
And I turn away and my thoughts wander to the same old soundtrack.
The one of monachopsis.
The one that sings about how difficult life is when you can’t pretend you’ve found the meaning in it, or hold it together just one more day.
The symphony’s sweetest sound is when lyrics are tied together in just the right knot.

The Light Starts To Dim


Fingers intertwined,
smiling eyes,
and goofy grins.

My gaze wanders over you
while we lie down on our sides—
your lips,
blushing cheeks,
and your precious emerald eyes
with drooping lids—
they sparkle in the golden afternoon light
I could stare at you for hours.
Time moves more slowly
when I’m with you.

I’m loving you
and I could never stop
as long as we stay
right here.

Suddenly the clock stops ticking.
The room swirls with my head.
The gold stops turning into gray.
My emotions are irrevocable
now I’m kissing you.


The moment
clings onto
the dust-covered walls.

I feel you smile
and my heart
beats out of my chest.

I notice the shadows
less prominent
on the walls
the afternoon light
starts to dim.

I hear you grin
in the now dark room.
I rest my head on your chest.
I can hear your heartbeat—
slow and soothing
and the warmth of your body.

The moonlight
illuminates our faces
with a silver incandescence.

Something switches
from passion to comfort
when you stroke the hair out of my face.

And I fall asleep
seeing silver and gold
swirl behind my eyelids.

This post was revised by my creative writing class at the University of The Arts.