What If There's Nothing More?
01 May 2012
Depression. Lying sweet and heavy on my tongue, like a drug; a poison spreading slowly through my body. Until my brain is sluggish and my limbs heavy, movement and thought a grand effort, it’s like I’m pushing my tired overwrought body through treacle. The very act of typing this and getting the letters, confusing black symbols dancing around before my eyes, to sit neatly on the page in the right order is taxing. Life seems a chore, a never ending cycle of work and avoiding work and slipping off to the sweet oblivion I gain from slumber. Of course the end is in sight, looming unstoppable and almost painfully bright in the future, trundling along on the creaking downward roll of time. I feel almost afraid to step out of this dear little room, cluttered and oppressive as it may seem at times. Out there is interaction with people and being a ‘functional member of society’ out there is judgement and performance and reassuring the people who cannot see past the smoke screen into the whirling depths of my mind. Out there is simply too bright, the harsh light showing every flaw, no shadows to hide unpleasant and negative thoughts in. Out there means exams. Where we all shuffle in, nervous and stuffed to the seams with knowledge and little facts that our trembling fingers are desperately trying to contain, not to let slip out and fly away carrying our calm with them into the wind. And we sit there in our neat little rows and jump through hoops like we’ve been trained, and when we’re done and have proof (on paper mother look!) that we’re knowledgeable and wise and “real scientists” we are spilled out into the real world. Eyes barely opened fresh faced and optimistic, been told all our lives that we’re special, inquisitive and unique. And someone who’s weathered the storms for a while, and has the scars to prove it will walk up, tear up our coveted slips of paper 100% A+++ and laugh in our face as they show us the magic fairground of adulthood is actually some druggies on a rickety seesaw. And those are the ones with power and money to begin with. There’s a sandbox in the corner where people go and try to build dreams, castles empires and fantastical creatures which crumble as soon as someone walks past. After all its just sand, grains shifting and scrambling with every gust of hot dry wind. As we walk past some, sit down and decide, despite the futility that they are going to try, create their own dust cities. There are some, optimists, who have been at this for years, piling up sand determined and desperate perhaps somewhere along the way the sand has been blown into their eyes; blinding them and they believe their sand little heaps are beautiful towering and intricate. Perhaps it’s almost better that way, not knowing.
Blind to the world’s hate, what do they see I wonder, do they see the rainbows and colours that life has long since washed away? I hope they do. I hope they’re happy now. I hope someone is.
I'm just about ready to give up.