Another Set of Footprints

You know how alchemists were searching for ways to turn lead into gold? I posit that depression has succeeded in doing the opposite to people: turning bright minds and bodies in motion into nothing but dead weight. Arms become harder to lift, legs lose the ability to carry you the way they did before. Lungs…like iron. 

And your mind? – a tired switchboard making all the wrong connections. Again and again. And I’m just so tired, but I’m also scared to write it all down: then it becomes real and somehow even heavier. 

I used to write all the time, stories, poems, songs. But it’s almost as though I can’t – not anymore. If I let that part of me have a voice again it takes me back down to the places I was before. I feel like my creativity is tied to my depression, field by it, and if I try and use my imagination it opens that door for all the darkness I’m trying to push down. There’s always some whispers, or course.  Some faint tendrils that manage to slip through the cracks. And if this is me with only the whispers, I am terrified of what would happen if I open the door entirely. There are so many things I should probably talk about and about a thousand issues that I need to work through, but I feel like it will never happen. Nobody wants to start a project without a finish line in sight. I doubt there is one. There’s just too much damage so it’s like, what the fuck is the point. Just push the demons down until the day I die, which will be when they finally rip through all the walls and barricades I have so painstakingly maintained. And I guess nobody will ever know what I went through, or the stories behind all the scars I carry, or all the wounds that have been left on my tired heart, my sad soul. 

I’ve tried writing it down, but I never make it very far. Maybe there’s too much? Nobody will understand or care anyway. So the safest option is to just keep that part of myself quiet. The injured part, the crippled, stumbling part. 

I’m sick of the rain here. I’m sick of the world everywhere. I’m sick of this goddamn pity parade and this tightening in my chest every time I try to think about anything. I’m scared of “living” on what always feels like stolen time, like things are always going to catch up to me and pull me under. And I’m scared that it’s going to happen sooner rather than later. 

I will last as long as my dogs. They saved my life and I can’t abandon them when I’m all they have. But I know they are the last threads holding me together. My last resolve, the only ones I have left that I love.  

And I guess that is the summary of my life. Limbo. Hanging, right on the edge. “And soon…spilled. On the brink of being. Spilled.” –jk

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