Came across a blog with a poem full of melancholy and sadness only the other day.It was something much more than what Keats penned in his ‘ode to melancholy’.Poem followed by some scriblings spoke volumes of seclusion pangs denoting a tempestuous depth of feelings she might be undergoing. ‘Save me against myself’ was the appeal. Her extraordinarily beautiful picture appearing in the blog was itself capable of telling a thousand stories through her deep looks glued to something just invisible. Sympathies sprangup from the core of my heart and I felt like I could share her grief whatever it was but she was inaccessible sans any consideration for her sympathizers –she could be callous or is helpless I don’t know. It’s like I see something and I don’t see. I possibly can’t identify her beyond what Shakespeare might have kept in his mind while talking about ‘Dark Lady’ of his sonnets. It’s a typical human tendency to get easily engulfed to an object that is suspenseful and visible only hazily. Honestly speaking I too can’t afford to be an exception to this.