I was washing the dishes and harmonising with the music playing through my phone when I noticed an insect had become trapped in the web on the window in front of me. As quick as a flash the spider was there, frantically spinning the insect in silk confines. Eventually, the insect stopped struggling; I wasn’t sure if it had died or had just given up but it filled me with such sadness that I began to cry. Right there, hands still in the hot water clutching the plate I was washing, I collapsed on to my elbows and sobbed. I sobbed for the spider being able to eat that day. I sobbed because the insect died in the way that it probably feared most. I sobbed because, sometimes, your worst nightmare is someone else’s salvation.
Depression is stupid and not a thing that makes me a better writer. One time I went a whole year without writing and I stayed in bed and drank. Fuck your Bukowskisms. I want sunlight and love and running down some street I’ve never been on where it’s warm and cool at the same time and I’m smiling. I want nothing to ever be bad again- and I don’t mean that I want a life free of conflict, I mean that I want a life free of meaningless conflict. Not being able to will oneself to take a shower or leave the house is meaningless. There is nothing to be gained, no lesson to be learned from that kind of life. My heart is stale, my prose is stale. Give me fire if you want to hurt me. Give me something I can taste. There’s nothing romantic or mysterious about where I am. There’s nothing here worth holding onto.
I’m institutionalised by depression, I know nothing else. I don’t mourn the happiness I never had; I lust for the happiness that I am supposed to have. If you have never felt the sun on your face, you can never truly miss it. You just know that there is a part of you that needs to feel that kiss of warmth, and you will continue touching kettles until you finally find what you have been missing.