A Poem About Depression

Sometimes you can’t see the floor,
Sometimes there’s only one top or a vest,
But this time there’s more,
And the carpet is the seabed to a fabric ocean,
It’s as much a mystery to me as my own mind.

Mind you that’s fine, that’s fine, I’m fine,
Not fine as in the void between good and bad,
but fine as in the tip of an ink pen,
Narrow and thin and sharp.
I’m drawing a line in the sand,
I’m fine with being not fine,
but I’m fine.

When that human drive to do isn’t there,
Even standing is a chore,
so is brushing your teeth or your hair,
do you even care?
Why? Why should I care?
When my brain makes things seem so bloody unfair,
why should I try if the only thing I don’t sigh at is the sight of my ceiling at 5pm?

When you’re hungry but eating means you will have to move,
and you will have to pour and chew and clean and move again,
and your brain hurts just thinking about the cereals in the kitchen,
and you’re itching to eat but the heat of muscle under skin is too akin to the feeling of a scolding iron,
so you just lie in…

Staying up late isn’t as exciting as it was when you were eight but it’s just a habit,
one you’d love to break,
but the pills they make you take keep you awake?
Why does such a small word with 4 letters and a single syllable have polar opposite meanings simultaneously?

Of course,
Language reflects who we are,
so maybe when we use words like fine
we mean we’re exceptional and average at the same time.
Paradoxical creatures of nature,
the human race is paper thin,
or fine like the tip of a Pin,
or the jagged edge of a poorly opened tin.
The mess on my bedroom floor is nothing but a metaphor for my current cognition.
The crumbling carnival cascade of conundrums and carried away cares with clowns hair coming to consume my consciousness.
But you already knew this,
because that’s how Language works,
I can convey meaning even when I didn’t say the precise words “I’m not fine”.


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