It’s a strange parallel, that at the same time you can’t conjure up a story to write about, you also can’t create a story to live about. Every time I try to put pen to paper, the ideas don’t come and the words are scrambled. Every time I try to do something new and exciting and adventurous in real life, I still think to myself, “Is this all there is?” It’s not like the latter is an unfamiliar feeling, but the former had previously always been my outlet. Experiencing both at the same is a first for me, and it’s not… well, it’s not fun.
Is this what depression really feels like? I’m not talking the sadness most people may feel on a periodic basis, nor am I talking the low-grade depression I’ve experienced on and off over the years. Is this what depression really feels like?
I’ve certainly experienced it worse now than ever before, but lately it seems I’ve come out of it, like I’ve come out of my analogous bed; however, the words still won’t come out of what I’m worried has become my idealess head.
Do we have time for creativity anymore? Make time for what’s important I guess. Is creativity just not important for me anymore?
No, I refute that. I refute that statement that it isn’t, although the statement is a question no one asked of me but me and no could answer for me but me.
I really just want to write short metaphorical stories again about the feelings I’m experiencing and what the world seems to be going through, through a hopefully unique and original lens and within the context of a philosophical psychology.
So that brings me here, to this point, this moment in time, where I’m explaining my absence in my writing, not to my totally very many readers – instead to myself.
I’d planned to write *these things*:
-different poems than the last three in this series; <better> poems
-two shorter stories, mixing in prose with poetry, one with more pose and one with more poetry
-two longer stories, one on the topic of disassociation, and delusion, viewing writings in a diary (Personalities on Different Days), and another on the subject of, well, also observing writings in a diary, journaling the timeline of a goal to find love within a year, and if not, on the eve of the new year, jumping from the roof of the building the individual got a job at, at the beginning of the year in order to execute the plan and perhaps execute themself on 34th and 5th (Empire State Essays, or more cringe-worthy, Dreams of Death / I clearly should be writing lyrics for a liquid metal band)
What I’d like to write is how life can be so simultaneously beautiful and ugly: how can life be so simultaneously beautiful and ugly? I’m constantly amazed by it. Half the day, I’m mumbling under my breath, swearing because of the selfish scenes I see, cursing the lack of empathy in the majority of opinions I hear. The other half, there’s pure astonishment for the world we’ve built. For the universe, the planet, and our species… for every little thing to occur exactly as it did for us to be here like we are today, if anything occurred differently, who’s to say I’d be writing this or then reading it on the internet. We might not be here, or we could be here but things could be much worse than they are (while noting they still stand to get better). There’s pain, but there’s beauty, humanity, comradery, [still some] empathy, love, and pleasure. It’s the small acts, the kind words, and simple gestures that say, “Hey, things are going to be okay. It isn’t always great, but we’re in this together, and we’ll make it through today.”
This is the world I’m witness to. And I couldn’t be happier to get the chance to observe it, even if I feel like an outsider at times, a background participant, and even though I lose the happiness for temporary, momentary lapses of it.
Sometimes it’s like I’m still driving through that dark tunnel: Slope revisited. Once I see sunlight – and green – I realize that I may be out of the tunnel but I might now find myself with a new struggle. It’s foliage I now see, with bits and pieces of blue skies overhead obstructed by bark and limbs. I’m not sure whether I’ll ever make it out of the forest: how many miles it stretches in any direction is anyone’s guess, and my only compass is the sun and knowing that when it sets, it sets in the west.
So I suppose I’ll just find the beauty in it all until then. I’ll look up at what seems like dead trees, and I’ll watch them grow the most stunningly colorful, wonderful leaves.
And one day, I know, when I leave, I’ll leave knowing I experienced the beautiful highs and the ugly lows, that I did the best and also sometimes the worst I could do, and as depressed as I got at times and thought about ending it all, I’m grateful I didn’t and thankful I got to be a part of this experiment – the most beautiful and ugly one that’s ever been invented: life.
30, 60, 90 years – however many it is, when I go, I’ll be glad to return to Earth to decompose and let it grow.
Because in the end, at least I got to bear witness to the show.
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