Dispatches from Depression

So there is no tomorrow after all.

Everything just stays the same as if time has ceased to turn. Of course, I will grow old and die, but my depression is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Maybe I have made a mistake. Maybe I am the mistake.

Maybe. . .

The wind and the trees tell me they know something I don’t know. They mock me with their beauty as does the stranger’s smile. Have I forgotten the lost? Have I forgotten death? Have I forgotten life itself?

Still, the cigarette in between my fingers burns away and I’m forced to steel myself against my hated enemy: love.

While the clock ticks my life away and I swim in an ocean of self perpetuated misery.


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