Depression:

I wonder if anyone of us could think ourselves into this state. Consumed by the peaceful, annoyance that makes no sense to our logical minds. I keep, purposely, forgetting to write. I can’t quite seem to pull myself out of the depths of habitual delusion enough to want to see my own words, on a perfectly white screen. It seems as though my thoughts can taint a screen, instead of inspire it like I might have hoped. All I can do is to pull myself into other people’s words, stories of explorations, to numb me from my own. This isn’t something I think I’ll post, for nothing good to come of such harsh words. Or is it that we sometimes forget to speak the truth?

I have forgotten what to do with myself today. Reno is literally barfing leaves. This windy city is ripping the colors from their places, leaving us with nothing short of a whimsical day. I find myself drinking too much coffee, for something called company. Wondering where my place is today. Today is Sunday. And with Sunday comes this lingering, eerie, haunting idea that tomorrow is class. That with the breaking to tomorrow comes business, homework, and florescent lighting.

So instead, of doing what I know cures my sunken mind, I moped, so joyfully, around this whimsical day. With so much wonderment, I was bordering depression. I played my guitar all afternoon, and read about mental illness in the midst of intellect and art. I felt myself get hungry, only to eat yet another squash. I made a gross cup of tea, but kept it between my hands for hope of warming my cold extremities. I tried to find a practice, only to clean the leaves off my floor. I realized how much I miss my sister. I realized how heavy, and dazed, and seduced my heart seems. Utterly bewildered by my lack of maturity.

So, what is it that I do? I let my words taint this perfect page. I sang until my throat aches. I don’t dare to move until dark. I hope for yoga in a yurt to come sooner than later, but for class to come later than sooner. I hope for the future, that maybe, just maybe this lovely misery I grasped for today, will make me better for tomorrow. That maybe its okay to sit with delusion and optimism. That there’s a chance, a chance that someday my bank account will be full. That my heart will weigh a little less. That when the snow comes I will have a heater in a car, instead of a scarf and a bike.

Tomorrow, and today. Are yet the same, without the logic of sentence structure I get to write. Without the mess of hope will I get to live. Without the fear of delusion, with nothing but joyful depression.