You try to write about depression with a bottle in your hand and a cigarette between your teeth, reciting your own words under the light of a little dim reading bulb, describing the chilly air around and the intensity of every emotion you feel thinking that you are describing sadness, while in real, you just crawl up the bed and curl like a starving kitten underneath the bed-sheets with tears streaming down your cheeks faster than an avalanche down an icy mountain who had just received a heat-wave, because things have been piling up and up upon your tiny little head that you figured there’s only so much a simple human being can take - up to the point where you don’t have the energy to invest in problems concerning pathetic little human-related drama, until at some point the tables turn and the game switches sides when the shooting gun hits an object close to your fragile useless human heart, about which you have to pretend like you don’t care because your average mind automatically takes you into a state of denial since it could not handle the fact that you are vulnerable. Again.
Because it could not cope with the addition to more loss. Again.
Because with all the problems in the world and the mistreated children in Africa and the war in Israel and all the sexism, murder and injustice spread across the Earth faster than human reproduction and the oblivion going around in the universe and You, as tiny as an atom inside a dot of dust in a studio-room, worry about the pain of some action that has occurred in your miserable little life and your stubborn ass of a brain does not admit to its weakness, nor to its defeat and therefore keeps fighting your body’s will to surrender to those goddamn bed-sheets, while your eyes watch your head drown in a pillow of tears and no one seems to notice, because every organ is focusing with their part of the negotiation, losing awareness to the unfortunate fact that they’re all about to lose function and all the internal struggle that finds place, while you externally have to “man up” and fake a smile and a handshake upon a person who probably goes through the exact same trauma everyday and yet still chooses to cover up, and you sit later on with the blade in your hands against the windowpane staring at your reflection, choosing whether it’s all worth it or rather not. You go with the latter.