notes from a depressive – April 2015

numb, yet compassionate, unable to

move more than at a snails pace.
eyes heavy, with fear or fatigue I
do not know.


I’m feeling again, recognizing some humanity in myself. The patience returns, that eternal peace. Why—This is what I had lost, peppy and delusional as I was, buoyed by the onrush of chemicals, able to walk but without a sense of direction, consumed by god knows what to such an extent that I was no longer human. Life was too easy, too comfortable. Nothing drove me forward.


Mind slowing, causing a rift in my
I slog slog slog
     want to give in and sink
The voice there says nothing
     looks on impassively

     Young girl
If not for her, I might let
     myself go.


Somehow this feels better,
more stable and true.
What happens when the mirage fades?
What does one see?


Two years. I’ve been present the two years. But where have I been? Hibernating. Locked away in a chemical prison, fed the belief that I am doing myself good. My mind’s been altered, my body adjusted to what seems most acceptable for me, here, in this world. I lost something, though. Forgot what it was to feel; drugs, they are for numbing and forgetting, not for curing and fixing. Get back out there and do your bit, smile and nod while everyone else does the same, learn to turn a cheek, learn to look away.



Cushy lifestyle, going through the motions, unfeeling, undesiring, mute. mute. mute. That’s what I’ve been. Mute. Dumb. Removed from the world. Unfeeling. Better to suffer and feel than to be stable and empty. How long can I suffer before I crack?


Move from here                    to here
          What is in the intervening space?
               does it intervene?
                    is it born?

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For the Intermittent Writer


Short books about albums. Published by Bloomsbury.

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