Silence spins out like a golden thread, spider like silk
distance no longer about space but emotion
Fears and desire combined to hold your hopes together
and you watch, and you wait to see if it will crumble.
Living at the seaside in a house made of sand, a moat
keeping the tide from attacking at the banks, eaten away
Water creeps closer and closer and still you wait
hoping that dreams can still come true?
A top the tower, watching the beast ravage the man
a forest of wickedness and lies, black truths
To protect and keep your faith nigh
what the hell is going on?
Waking every morning, a scream upon your face
smitten with the devil who tortures you all night
How did you get here and do you really care?
so long as the peace has been written.
It is hard. How do you explain to someone who’s serotonin levels don’t fluctuate. Who never have had the sense of impending doom? Who wakes in the morning and goes through their day without once wondering if they have fucked up so badly they will be without work in the morning? You cannot. Because for someone who does not live with depression, your words may paint pictures but it cannot convey feelings.
Depression is an angry beast, insidious in how it creeps in and affects every aspect of your life. No one wants me, no one cares, no one can understand how I feel. The abyss beneath your feet, it is real, all consuming and you spend hours tightrope walking to ensure your sanity. But you cannot explain. You cannot show.
And it feeds your bliss too. My creativity surges when I am in a depressive state. I can write poetry that makes your soul bleed, I can write prose and entice those who do not read, to devour my stories. And want more. So I crave the blackness, I crave the sleepless nights and boomerang days. I live in my head, during work hours, during down time, coming out of my fugue to care for my son. I live in a world of fantasies. And it feels good.
Not only do I live with depression, but so does my bff and her daughter. My bff is on medication and lives a calm serene (LOL sometimes) life. She is willing to give up creativity for stability. Her daughter and myself, we are artists. Not that my bff isn’t but We Are Artists. We need to create. Via the written word, paint, media. We have words to speak and a need for the world to hear. However, our creativity is closely tied to our depression. (I have a feeling my bff’s daughter is going to disagree with me and this is because all my beliefs are based on her mom’s perception of her rather than my own as I have not spent any time with her) but anger and passion fueled by depression is addictive.
The beast is depression. The beauty is the brilliance that spills from my mind and fingers, from the paint brush on the canvass, the ability to convey my thoughts and worries. I know this is disjointed. It may not make sense but to me there is beauty in the truths I have found tonight.