I Hide My Depression From Everyone Who Knows Me
To family, friends and co workers I have this easy going, joke telling mask that I wear.
Usually I'm in a good place and happy. But occasionally I suddenly realize that the cloud has descended upon me.
Ironically, I think I am most creative when i am in such a place.
I guess tonight is one of those nights. I was once asked by someone ... How does it feel when you are depressed. This is what I wrote. I find it hard to accurately convey in words.... But this is about the best I can do.
THE MINER THAT IS ME
My heart is shattered into a million fragments of misty, murky darkened pain. The unrelenting cacophony of pain and suffering creeps upon me as if I am its nucleus. Solid beacons of random futility seem to be my North Star. Forever adrift, my soul wanders the cosmos screaming at the clouds that blot the beckoning stars.
The cresting waves densely, cleverly, wash over my life with purpose and authority, leaving miles of psychological flotsam, torn from the fabric of my wistful dreams and fractured heart.
The hum of the dull aching pain ensconces my sensibilities whilst dampening chortles and smiles, forcefully ripping them from my very lips. Dread drips onto me in sheets of murky uncertainty, confirming that my fear has yet to be allayed.
Lightning fast, my mind spins upon an axis of incomprehensibly dense, impenetrable stone, handing out confidences like an ancient store boss’s crooked fingers dropping a meager quantity of shillings into a blackened miner’s hand.
Must there not be some priceless riches and gems deep in my reservoir of the unseen and untouched? Why must such a fortified place exist? I imagine it to be like a weathered old box lined with silk holding an item so delicate that when the box is opened, the sunlight would surely eviscerate its contents into the charred powdery dust of what once was me.
I often laugh at the irony of my irascible and infinite self-examination. For am I not born of the dust from a dying star. In some quantum and unimaginable way I am a conscious, aware example of the universe examining itself. Yet I yet do not have the key to unlock the dusty vault that contains the answers to all things asked.
Soon, like always, the storm passes and I find myself drenched and cold as I emerge once again into a brilliant morning sky. The light soon warms my blue, numb and aching fingers as I am once again regenerated and reinvigorated to go forth as an ambassador of the light.
Maybe I will feel like being an ambassador tomorrow...
Usually I'm in a good place and happy. But occasionally I suddenly realize that the cloud has descended upon me.
Ironically, I think I am most creative when i am in such a place.
I guess tonight is one of those nights. I was once asked by someone ... How does it feel when you are depressed. This is what I wrote. I find it hard to accurately convey in words.... But this is about the best I can do.
THE MINER THAT IS ME
My heart is shattered into a million fragments of misty, murky darkened pain. The unrelenting cacophony of pain and suffering creeps upon me as if I am its nucleus. Solid beacons of random futility seem to be my North Star. Forever adrift, my soul wanders the cosmos screaming at the clouds that blot the beckoning stars.
The cresting waves densely, cleverly, wash over my life with purpose and authority, leaving miles of psychological flotsam, torn from the fabric of my wistful dreams and fractured heart.
The hum of the dull aching pain ensconces my sensibilities whilst dampening chortles and smiles, forcefully ripping them from my very lips. Dread drips onto me in sheets of murky uncertainty, confirming that my fear has yet to be allayed.
Lightning fast, my mind spins upon an axis of incomprehensibly dense, impenetrable stone, handing out confidences like an ancient store boss’s crooked fingers dropping a meager quantity of shillings into a blackened miner’s hand.
Must there not be some priceless riches and gems deep in my reservoir of the unseen and untouched? Why must such a fortified place exist? I imagine it to be like a weathered old box lined with silk holding an item so delicate that when the box is opened, the sunlight would surely eviscerate its contents into the charred powdery dust of what once was me.
I often laugh at the irony of my irascible and infinite self-examination. For am I not born of the dust from a dying star. In some quantum and unimaginable way I am a conscious, aware example of the universe examining itself. Yet I yet do not have the key to unlock the dusty vault that contains the answers to all things asked.
Soon, like always, the storm passes and I find myself drenched and cold as I emerge once again into a brilliant morning sky. The light soon warms my blue, numb and aching fingers as I am once again regenerated and reinvigorated to go forth as an ambassador of the light.
Maybe I will feel like being an ambassador tomorrow...
51-55, M
