Hello, lovely readers. For some reason only beknownst to it, my depression has gotten rather uppity over the past few days. But rather than continuing to sit here in a grumbling match with my depression, I decided to pull out my keyboard and describe it instead. Spectres usually aren’t so hard to deal with once you’ve managed to pin them down.
So now I’ve got a poem to share with you all! Aren’t you lucky. But don’t any of you dare go thinking, “Man, more writing, this is great! If only she were depressed more often!”
Seriously. I will excommunicate you.
Nil
Depression is the tired feeling of waking up too early on a grey morning,
cloudy and alone.
Depression is the too busy, too rushed, too late sprint to the next have-to
with the no-consolation of a half-peck on the lips from a lover while you don’t even stop
on your way out the door.
Depression is the uneven kilter of a storm-ridden brain when it’s sunny outside,
and you continue to stare at the light coming through your window even while you shrink from it,
because the bewildered confusion in your eyes is too rapt to look away.
Sometimes depression is pain. Sometimes depression is numbness.
But sometimes depression is none of these things;
it is not pain or numbness or fear or hardness or solitude or sadness.
Sometimes depression is nothing.
An odd non-existence to the mold of organic matter,
an emptiness where there once was something,
a void of anything at all that would indicate you are still alive.
A hollow deadness, too much of an absence to be either blank or black.
A hole into which everything is falling,
but in which there is nothing at all to be seen.
Quill Aquiver 
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