There is a relentlessness to the depression my life has been plagued by. Every single day I wake up with emotions whose beginnings or causes are unknown to me, beyond my ability to perceive. In this my equally relentless thirst for understanding must draw me thin over every passing minute until I feel that I must go mad from the tension. Where once was a feeling of paranoid expectation now there lives a dogged determination to continue on to the next hour, and the next, and the next, a refugee from the unfolding of illusory immortality hounding my senses into the chase.
I cannot attempt to justify my actions from this place of haunted shoulder-glances, especially now that I can see my choices more clearly, having received the mixed blessing of awareness of options. No longer am I trapped, but released into a miasma of information and experience baiting me once more into that old pursuit of understanding, and the depression is everywhere still, seldom attempting to hide. It doesn’t need to. I carry it with me and watch it paint the landscape with colors it stole from my chest, its easel my bones, its brushes carved teeth-ivory that it wields more masterfully than I.
It matters less if I am a good person, if I like what I have become or what I am becoming.
Each day it grows and writhes with the shadows of the Sun. Each day there is a noon, and for each noon a sunset lengthens the pulse of its rhythm. I pray for the night, for sleep, for moments eligible to be forgotten in the aether, and my prayers are answered by the genie I have rubbed one too many times and now supplants the listening-post for my lunatic requests. I exhaust myself and there is no end to my companion’s silent smile. It has always been me providing the words. Depression finds the creativity it lacks in the contents of my mind it threw across the tundra.
There is no blame to be passed around. What little there is rests firmly with me, for my outbursts and isolation. It was all a choice, and I cling to the illusory lack of choice to avoid responsibility. Even so, I only lay claim to my actions and words. I have been exposed to the scalding intensity of emotion from memory’s beginning, and it is no fault of anyone. My path has been one of devastating falls and extraordinary pinnacles, and I am grateful for it, though it rasps into the beds of my nails with its torturous length. Silence is a love I am still learning.
Every day and every night I, the nightmare of a miracle gone wrong, patrol the emptying trails, waiting for something out of place to obliterate. Again, our arrogance: to think we may judge good from bad, and therefore decree survival or destruction. What will be will come to pass despite our efforts, yet we roar with our lion-cub growl and think that this will matter. I am certain that my effort will amount to something, but cannot preordain effect with success.
Why do I love?
Yes, it’s fucking rhetorical. I have sought the answer everywhere, in mind, heart, platitudes, obscurities, and finally relationships. I have broken oaths and rampaged through shared landscapes, an angry god in a china world, so small, so clumsy. I have ruined bridges beyond fire’s capability and still have the gall to cry across the chasm ‘I’m sorry, I still love you’
‘Come back to me, though I am the one who left’
No sane person should pay me any mind.