Personally, I liken Melancholy to how one might slowly and quietly allow their body’s muscles, ligaments, and bones to gently melt into a comforting yoga pose; a soft subtle acquiescence of self.
Depression, on the other hand, is a pervasive, glutinous monster. I have personally stared into the rapacious eye of that ever consuming vortex that is depression, and it did own me for a while.
Yet, Melancholy has a soothing aspect to it, much like being emotionally and mentally swaddled in a soft, warm blanket on a chilly, stormy night in a comfy room with a steaming cup of tea.
It is a sweet sort of sadness, really, and it bears me kindly away when dark clouds dim sky, when leaves turn to rusty hues, and the alluring scent of rain begins to permeate the thickening air.
My muse has an appetite for Melancholy, and so I find myself longing for Autumn’s moody elements, and even for the somber depths of Winter. I gladly acquiesce to that which suits her best.