Depression is like this:
The mirror in the front room is showing me a man getting older. I look vainly for the teenager, but he’s long gone and I am slowly forgetting the source of my scars.
This might be my last year here on earth so I need to bleach my hair cuz my roots are showing. I feel ugly but I would like to live this moment forever even though nothing special is happening.
The old mirror loves it when I lean in real close.
I look like shit without all the makeup and good lighting but people still stare at my eyes and tell me I am handsome. Pericarditis is my companion most days now.
My morning cup of coffee is still sitting on the stand beside the sofa half consumed and its August; the leaves and their tossing foretell an end of summer. It was blowing one of those un-seasonal winds that would have me out the next morning checking which trees were fallen, which paths were blocked, which roofs were damaged.
I felt like writing but instead I got drunk and kinda scowled at the computer screen forever. Intellectualism isn’t any good when inspiration is nowhere to be found.
Grew up nervous that I would never be smart cuz I wasn’t all that good at crossword puzzles. I grew up hoping I could connect with others over our mutual need to relieve and relive our pain by writing.
I’m also the dude who spends the entire day watching boyband music videos from the 90’s. Or the guy who is weirded out by the dustmites that live in my eyebrows.
I do a quick Google search of “black mold.”
If I had a solution to any of my problems, I’d be half a doctor by now.
I think I waste too much time but one can never be too sure.
I tried to settle on some theme that others might find winning.
I guess we all tend to gravitate toward the familiar.
Next comes the rapid melee of failed relationships remembered, manipulation and cycles of violence, the dawns over all the strange places I have traveled, the delved depths of isolation, causing havoc with a revolutionary’s motives. Then my relentless fantasizing about anal sex. Haha. This is what happens when things go unchecked. Things get messy very fast.
I have every urge to write about my hurt, instead, I’ll think of being romanced. I feel like this current mood requires a shot of tequila. I may never reach heaven but it has been brought to me countless times. In the form of poetry, hangovers, kinky internet hookups that resulted in towels laid out onto mattresses to inevitable floods.
I have found myself in a place of misfortune. There are claims being levied on me:
That I am intelligent.
Couple that with my broken heart and clearly:
I am not very smart at all.
The evidence is in the previous weeks of my life where the stars have reflected exactly what the days have said: I am weak. This is weak. This week. The week before. Next week.
Being brilliant is wonderful, but the vibrations are nasty.
This is a place of imprisonment, this small space I call my world.
My jail cell.
I am anonymous here-
I have been wandering my cell like a zombie in such a state that life will seem illusory, a constructed ghost, easily ignored. I am almost 30 years old. I feel the loss of time.
Where did a decade go? Two decades?
And with age, it seems that there should be change – I should finally be confident and disciplined or something.
Instead, the illusion of continuity makes it seem as though I’m the same as I’ve always been. Growth is so gradual that sometimes it’s easy to feel as if it has never happened. So much to ruminate over and so much empty space to mourn.