"Everything okay?" the balding man asked.  He shook his head annoyed as always.  Regardless of his actual state of being he would always say he was "fine'.  From his observations he knew no one really cared about the answer to such questions, they were just pleasantries and obligations.

"I know you're just a melancholy person" The old man continued, "I can be pretty melancholy myself."  The young man was more concerned with the eldritch looking pixie weaving it's way through the hordes of students filtering through the University commons.  He hated the way he used the word 'melancholy'. 

In fact the misuse of words was one of his pet peeves.  Like how if you said the word 'romantic' everyone automatically thought you were talking about a girl you liked and not the idealistic perception of something.  No one knew what words meant anymore.  That's probably why so few people bothered listening to them.

People like this old man were only perpetuating the problem.  They put themselves in positions to help young minds.  They offered to come talk with you and share their age wizened knowledge when in reality they wanted to talk your ear off.  They wanted to spread their own propaganda and lies, further masquing reality for the next generation to supercede them.

Even his friends had fallen into this man's trap.  They agreed with the bespectacled man when they called him melancholy, they used the term to describe things.  They didn't see the brown's and grey's that coloured the world beneath the colorful tapestries of these false words.  Melancholy is not an adjective, it's a state.

The pixie had now lighted upon the shoulder of a girl with coquettish pig tails.  He could clearly see the sorrow in her eyes.  This man never could, he wouldn't get past her large mouthed smile, the teeth unnaturally white.  Their meeting finished the young man stood to leave.  His long coat enveloping a gaunt frame.

"You know I love you man."  The old man gave his parting words.  He smiled sardonically in return.  "One of these day's you're going to believe me."  The young man knew this was simply a sad attempt at optimism.  He knew that the man was trying to save him in an effort to make his own life more meaningful.  And he was willing to fulfill that need if it would truely keep the man safe.

The pixie often alighted on the top of his bald head and delighted in dancing amongst the light that reflected off from it.  The young man was waiting for the day when the pixie would be unsatisfied with her stage and bore into his ear to play in his mind.

Then he would take the man with him.  He would guide him down the winding streets on which the goblins and demons sold their wares.  When they reached his front door he would softly wrap against it thrice.  When it opened to reveal the horror of reality he would say "Welcome to Melancholia, welcome to my home."

The End

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