[Blog Post] Dawn, Depression, Daylight.

Working on Saturday is sort of like "working". Much less noise on the roads, far more in the buildings. I can see the cold mist of 7am, draped over the autumn infused trees, few obstacles between my eyes and the distant suburban forest.

I'm feeling better than I was. I'm not entirely sure of how much that's worth. Then again, I'm probably still emotionally reeling from recent events. Personal as well as national. What else is new?

It sucks when people close tell you they are proud of what you've done, how far you've come, and you feel anger. Does that happen to anyone else? I don't feel I've done anything worthy of praise, which is fine with me as a rule. I am an improvement on who I was. I think better thoughts. I'm much, much better at managing anger. Sadness not so much but hey I'll take what I can get. I'm more active, both physically and politically. I'm doing what I can to build a person who is helpful to those with far less privilege.

A hornet chased me away from the bench at the bus stop. "No rest," they kept saying, circling the nearby trash can. "No rest," they repeated, lost. Far from their friends. Their home.

Every moment I allow myself to relax I feel guilt. I know I should always strive to do more. I'm hoping I'm working my way up to that amount of activism, that this isn't just some blip on my journey, where I go right back to being ruled solely by my addictive personality.

Still. Good things. I'm in a better headspace than I was this time last year, the entirety of last year, the beginning of this one.

It feels sort of like a much simpler version of depression. Usually it comes in bursts, and I am incapacitated by the illness for days at a time. I'm much more functional recently, but I feel it always there. Like that mist, over the autumn trees. I see, I hear, I feel beauty all around me and around most of my actions. I feel the new vigor in the love I pour into what I do and how I interact with people. Still, the mist. Nothing is perfectly clear, still and wonderful. The mist is light, translucent.

Why do anything about it? It's nice. I get to be helpful in small ways, I use my mind to assist in the fight for equality when I am able. That's who I want to be. I just want to help. It's not a huge deal if there's a pall of sadness and lack of self worth that doesn't affect anyone else. Except in the case that it escalates–but I mean, I'm better at recognizing when I'm worse. Managing. Taking steps to deal. Working myself through it mentally.

It seems awfully tragic and overly white knight-like. "Wow what a martyr, sacrifices his happiness for the betterment of others wow so cool" like…fine. I know it sounds that way and I don't care. All that matters is I'm being even a little helpful, I have the potential to be more helpful, and all I have to do to keep it up is live with a mist.

I've always had poor vision anyway. You see a single rabbit spring into the brush, another, smaller, following. I squint, wishing I'd seen it, pretending I had, imagining how nice it was. It's almost as good.

"All in all it's been okay–I've lived well."

Jhene Aiko is pretty corny sometimes, especially in her latest album. But Eternal Sunshine keeps me going. It says, "it's okay. Everything is okay. Not perfect, maybe not great. But it's good, it's alright, I've lived well and I should never stop appreciating that."

So that's how I'm feeling these days. Fairly happy with a constant pall of depression. Maybe it comes with the territory of activism against systems you yourself are complicit in. Maybe it was bound to happen regardless. My current strength of belief in hard determinism would agree with that last.

I'll just keep rolling with it. This path presently sucks for my self worth, like a lot. I don't feel very good about myself or very important. But it's much better for the world, and a continued trajectory has the potential to result in actual…well, results.

It is my hope that this will eventually bring me out of it. When I feel as if I have brought about real change, even in a small way, I might love myself? That'd be just the best.

The mist clears as the dawn turns into day. I'm hoping my sun continues to rise as well.

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Pizza and Depression

As a teen, there were many days I would get off the bus and just be crazy depressed. Usually for no good reason beyond the fact that I hated home. I mean, who didn’t?

For a long time, my mom would be all like, “do you want to stop and get a pizza from Little Caesars?”

For a while, I was like, “*sniffle sniffle*…yeah…”

It worked, man. I loved that pizza for whatever reason. Didn’t feel guilty either, because that shit was cheap.

Then, a day came when my mom asked, and I said, “No.”

I remember her silence. I can imagine her thoughts at that moment. “Shit, this kid might be really depressed today. I don’t know what the fuck…hmmm…”

I feel bad for her. There was nothing she could have done. I was a moody asshole. Simple as that.

I never appreciated her enough. I mean she’s still alive, so I tell her now. But, at the time…God, dude. Thank your fucking mom for being such a trooper.

I don’t know why that moment sticks out so much in my memory. I haven’t had a Little Caesars pizza since.

It’s like…is that good, or bad?

Depressing Musings

I worked out today. It was nice, even if it was out of anger.

I got in a fight with my girlfriend, shortly after we woke up. I was irritable because my job did not give me hours today, and I had been hoping to finish up. Other employees say it will be like this for the rest of the week, because of the holiday weekend.

My job is very annoying. I know this is no excuse. I apologized. It wasn’t enough. She is angry with me for doing this on more than one occasion.

I don’t know. I guess I have been caught between happiness and a crushing sense of being lost and lonely. I’m finally at a point in my life where I can concentrate for a bit on what it is I want to actually do. I do not want to be stuck at a couple dead end jobs that help me pay rent. I would like to find something I love and pursue it.

One of those things is voice acting. I have trouble pursuing it because I am embarrassed to try and do voices while others are around.

Sometimes I wonder if I would like living alone. I don’t know if I would. I get very lonely, but then I also get very sick of people. I feel like I have all of the worst parts of being extroverted and being introverted just mashed together to make up my personality towards others. I need time to recharge, but I am also very happy entertaining large groups of people.

I don’t know what my father was like. I never met the guy, or heard much about him. My mother seems to like to keep to herself, and my grandfather was a very popular singer and actor at his college. That’s all my mind really goes off of when looking for an answer to why I am this way.

I don’t have many friends anymore. I mean, there are a few who would still say we are friends, but we rarely, if ever, hang out. I can’t say they are sorely missed, either. They were never very close friends anyway, despite what some obscenely drunk nights might tell you.

I don’t know if I enjoy being sober. Sometimes I find it very refreshing, like I’m a day that finally decides it isn’t time for a storm. I love the rain, though. Always have.

I never thought I would have a steady girlfriend. Past-me would be very happy to know that much, at least. I spent a lot of time as a youth going after people I knew I could not attain, and relishing that feeling of wanting something I could never have. Then, when I could have it, I would reject it. I suppose that means my significant other is a testament to me growing up, at least a little.

I like being productive, but I don’t know where to put all of that drive. I want to put it somewhere fun, but I also need money. Said everyone ever, right? I should be happy to have a roof over my head and moderately good food to eat.

Will I always just want more? Will I always be miserable, no matter how far I get? Will I die with regrets?

I hate imagining old me. It’s like in those movies where, they look in the crystal ball and see a miserable, wretched silhouette of flesh and they go, “well idiot, if things keep going the way they are going, you’re going to end up like that!

As of now, I’m going to end up alone and sad.

This is coming across as really depressing. I’m really not that terrible depressed, I don’t think. I am sad, but I’m sure it will pass.

I have always needed therapy. If my mother had made enough money to not go bankrupt on more than one occasion, then perhaps I would have been able to get some as a child. I always had anger issues, anxiety issues, depression. I guess not always on the depression front, that only started when I was 12 or so.

Depression is such an asshole. Makes you feel so comfortable in your numb, lifeless world. Then it has the gall to say, “actually if you aren’t diagnosed, I don’t exist! You’re just a loser! HA!”

Dick.

I have my mother’s insurance until the end of the year. I should see if the place nearby accepts that insurance, and how much it would cover. I just want someone to finally be like…

Yes. This is a problem.

No. This is not how you should be feeling.

Yes. It is okay.

No. You are not crazy.

No. You should not lay down and give up.

Yes. You can get through it.

Yes. It is real.

Yes. You are loved.

Yes. You matter.

No. You are definitely not crazy.

Yes. Talking will help.

Yes. I can help you.

Yes. Maybe medicine would help.

No. You do not have to be afraid.

It is scary. It is okay to be afraid. But you will be okay. You can breathe.

 

You can breathe.

 

That would be nice.

Time, the Asshole

What ever made you think

all of the stipulated sun fire

would lash in the shape

of another’s eyeball?

 

How could the world be any different than it already is from itself?

Even if a time machine was born tomorrow

I think it might opt out

stop itself from existing

before trying to fix any of the

leaks,

or shaky columns

stood upon by

shoes with stomped heels and

sockless toes.

 

Stray mountain,

stay until sunrise.

I’m in need of a

blanketed eclipse.

 

It doesn’t really matter to me

that the blue wanes.

The crescent solstice of moody wakefulness

barks madly at every passing misconception.

Startled, the whisper wanders.

Trying to find light in the logic,

fearing, worse,

that it was blacked out long ago.

 

 

What is it when a dandelion sings better than your previous stirring? How can I even write when I fear the very eyes that would be able to tell me whether or not I’m mad? I cannot begin to fathom the ways in which a cloud turns and does not regret turning in the first place. What does it matter if it avoids the rain? A stray piece of lightning, or a thunder’s quiet aftershock will inevitably break apart the majestic puffy balance of the whole. Eleven hours later and there is no need for worry. It is another day, and that day comes with its worries. There should always be a Tuesday part two, where we get to go over the day with a thin pronged comb, try to even out the messes left on the table, on our brows. Even if you feel as if you did all you could, we have always been told to double check our work, just to be sure we didn’t leave any questions unanswered. “But still, I do not wish to look back.” Well some of us do, so why don’t you take the day to get some extra sleep? “I do not think there is anything for me in the land of my dreams.” You are sadly mistaken. Many desires that will forever go unfulfilled lie in wait for the sleeping ball of blue. And so what if the fine tuning of a day lasts forever? Who are you to decide for me that I should not repeat the same day in order to get it just right, just the way I want it to go? Why should I just go with the flow of you? Time, you’re an asshole. You always have been. No one wants to say it anymore, they just want to adapt, as is their nature, MY nature. I don’t want to. I want to go against your stupid endless flow and make my own god damn river, and you’re a huge dickbag for not letting me. I get that you’re bigger and more powerful, and no one can stop you. I don’t care. You’re already going to kill me, so I might as well take some of you out of my day to call you on your bullshit. I can’t believe you.

 

Skip ahead to the final moments when I realize it was all for nothing. You’re just waiting for the final, breathless punchline to tie a pretty pink bow around your perfect little joke. I get it. Haha.

 

You’re so predictable, it hurts. When will you finally get tired of seeing me hurt? When is it my turn? When do i get to punch a clock in its stupid face and hear you say “ow”?

I could drink. I did smoke. I don’t want to do either, really. There are a million things I would like to do. Because of you, I either can’t do them, or am to afraid to do them, for fear of losing my roof and my bread.

People don’t deserve to be evil. You just force it upon them and laugh till your sides split, opening up more room for the bitter, smoke-laden countdown to never.

 

If I had a pocketwatch, I would turn it back and just pretend. Even the idea of stealing back what you’ve taken from me is more satisfying than spending another one of your overpriced seconds.

The Broken Moonlight

A boy lived in the woods. It was alright there. Anywhere else was much worse, so the woods had to suffice. Though it was oft dark and cold, he learned to love shivering and lacking sight. No stray beast came to devour him as of yet, as they only seemed to look upon him with passing curiosity. It could be assumed his frail frame did not delight the eyes of nature, in that he could never make for more than a light snack. Even the moon’s all-loving eye strayed from his being. He tried to court it, building small homes where a gap in the tree tops allowed for light. The small warmth of the moon might allow him some respite from the shadows he so desperately clung to. When he tried this, the moon would call the clouds to mask her face from him, leaving him all but the faintest of glances from the eye of the night. Even those did naught to sate his need for heat, as he knew they were but miniscule mistakes, and it would only hurt him to take them as anything more.

When the sun would wake at the outset of each day, the boy would disappear. He would retreat into himself, to become one with his own inner lightless nature. He knew the inhabitants of the sun would poke fun at him. He knew they would ask at his pale skin and feeble stature. The boy became weakened by every trifling thought of negativity that crossed his path, until the path was gone and he remained, stranded.

Now, he sits. He breathes. Water is near and he thinks about drinking it. He wonders at the point of going on and, realizing there is none, continues to sit. The boy believes this darkness to, at least, be more comfortable than the endless void beyond the land of life-full beings.

Air is not so thin to one who is himself shaved down to but a pale and broken beam of mistaken moonlight.

Mis-purposed Ribcage (Fiction)

I sit there with an expression on my face that reads like a speechless thought bubble. I rock back and forth with the bumps and bruises encountered by the bus. My eyes will sometimes attempt to look into the lives of other by perusing their skin, their clothing. Sometimes, they would endeavor to see the person in a sexual light, even if underneath such illumination lay one quite unfitting to my tastes, even if such a fact was well observable without the help of a candle’s flicker.

My nostrils grow and fall, rustling the dust above my lip. I do not notice. I notice the trees, launching by me and the rest of the passengers at the speed of stillness. It amazes me how such a land-locked being could appear to move so much more than I, though I have feet with which to transport my tired vessel.

The rampant belongings of thought tumble in my skull, and the fingers of sentence structure can not grasp any ideas longer than a moment too small for measure. I realize this, and can do nothing for it. It leaves me feeling like I need a blanket, despite the lack of cold. It makes me want to undress all at once, lay myself down on the dirty floor, rest the breath in my chest, in my head. I feel too open and too closed, like an empty bar in a secluded lot, right off the side of a highway on holiday. Tabs are open, but they’re all in names I have just made up. Margery doesn’t exist anymore than Mike’s piss stains in the corner. Everything stands as a shadow against a wall, a shadow whose owner has long since left the embrace of the too-white glare blazing from beyond the barstools. .  

Too open. Too closed.

I am simply trying to ride the bus home, but my mind has decided instead to raid me of rational sensation, in favor of irreducible aches induced by clues – clues leading up to a mystery that no one can be satisfied with, once they unravel its delicate threads. Such is the way of our addiction to stimulation.

I will do it for you, leave the moral unbound, right here and now. Reach down to the floor, and pick it up for me. For you.

Here:

Nothing is ever so easy as allowing oneself to believe in the dull, dark captivation of their own cold, lonely core.  

The chest begs to break, but…

The ribcage is without cause anyway.

Depressive Wandering (Poem)

I’m not gasping for air.
I don’t require a drink of productivity.
I could use a blank screen
playing back and forth in my mind.

Doleful and hidden
flipping through textless pages
memories that do or don’t incite reaction.
Play two cards,
play them again.
Look into them
like they were your siblings.

Drinking amasses a round of flavors
that hardly touch the tongue.
Gliding over it,
they outsource to more stores within your mind
ones with giant OPEN signs

The N flickers

Have you ever worked a day in your life and thought,
“Interesting. I enjoyed this.”
Share the rest of the dialogue.
Sing to me of sweet days
Of barley shin kisses
haybale chucking
fondly remembering
the adventures awaiting your return
to their electric reality
surging through your pillow
to your brain
into dreams
wakeful or otherwise.

Deep in the ear,
there lies a book.
It reads itself over and over again.
One day,
it thought of a sequel.
To publish it,
There must be
at least a palmful
of fire.