For me having a depression is like being stranded on a boat and having your anchor caught on the ocean floor, with no way to cut the line.  You are just stuck there, somewhere in the middle of nowhere, almost motionless, and encompassed by dense fog. The view in every direction is the always the same . There you are, night and day isolated from the rest of the world while in a daze of disbelief, that this situation you have found yourself in, could actually be happening. And what is worse, is that you can see no way out and no way to remedy the situation. As if you are frozen, awaiting the end of the ice age to finally be discovered, even if only your bones are left. In this suspended state, it would seem you only exist to remember all the days that came and went before you got stuck. You exist only to remember the person you once were, the dreams you once had, and all the things you once treasured that no longer mean anything to you. And when you tire of that, then you wonder about all the things that would be possible if you were not stuck as you are. Back and forth between past and present your attention endlessly shifts, and you rise and fall to the rythmes of your slow demise.

Well, my writing is my attempt at a ship's log, a diary of the events written down for whoever might discover the skeletal evidence of my demise long after I have succumbed to the poison of time, while locked in the prison of my own broken mind. In the distant future I dream there will be some form of museum, perhaps virtual, though it is impossible to tell. This "museum" will the countless stories of those of us who suffered with all manner of illness life. Our stories will be like artifacts. Though, I have no illusions that a post humus log such as the one I have been producing for so many years will not be a main attraction of the evolved masses. However, I do hope it will find its rightful place in a certain dark and under appreciated corner, under a specific era and topic of categorization. This may indeed be my final remaining crumb of hope for some tiny legacy of my being, some faded fingerprint upon the periphery of a future society's collective consciousness. Though I know that it is only the wish of the living to be valued and remembered, for the dead have no such inclinations toward vanity.

CopperCoil CopperCoil
36-40, M
1 Response May 21, 2008

Thanks for sharing this, feels good crying and hop to bed and forget for a while, frozen