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If melancholy was a place, it would be a plain. It is long and wide. The vastness, where blue from the sky melts into green from the fields in one, thin line of the horizon is overwhelming, consuming.

Everything appears distant. If you spend enough time in it, a wasteland will start spreading on the inside, pushing out all pleasant sensations to occupy more space for itself. It will become a shirt for you to wear everywhere you go. You will not notice it at first, but the invisible shirt will pressure you and you will wonder why you want to cry when a cheerful song plays and why your dreams are always strange or frightening, but never happy.

If you take a road cutting through the plain, your feet will hurt. You will feel pointlessly free, as all around would strike you as endless. The plain is loneliness hiding in the croplands, the grass, and the soil.

If you ever come to a plain, make sure you bring all of your happiness with you. That way, you can enjoy the breeze whistling through blades of wheat, blushing sunsets sinking beyond, puffed clouds splashing as racing horses through clear, blue dome embracing the striving stretches of dirt.

The plain demands you whole. And if you agree to that, it will give you a strange sense of peace in return. Wherever you go, whichever place you visit, it will stay with you and make you want to go back to it. At the end, it remains and you are tinted by it. Everything else is insufficient. The waves of mountains, all the tops to conquer, the concrete of cities, monuments to admire, yet nothing can compare to the sea of earth escaping beneath you, boundless.

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