So maybe it doesn’t follow the rules that were set by the Priestess of the Dawn. Maybe the night has its own rules and one of them is just make it till morning.
Maybe it is not responsible for your comfort or great euphony or the gentle setting of glass on water. Maybe it is happy just to lay as still as it can on the floorboards and believe they will hold you from one moment to another.
Maybe it doesn’t want to be told about you. Maybe it doesn’t want to act good and kind and nice and fine. Maybe it has no use for platitudes. Maybe it has never known how to gild and dress and sand itself into acceptable tones or terms. Maybe it doesn’t want to break against the rock you would like it to break against. Maybe it has its own path and its own cycle and its own moon and its own reign over its own sky.
Maybe your approval of it is as meaningless as your name for it.
I am tired. I am tired of feeling hijacked. Why would we stop a few blocks from home just to breathe? Because our heart rate flutters inexplicably at that particular stoplight. Because we think we can control it through avoidance, but the thing it likes best is a long shadow, or a dark corner, or a cold shudder. Its arms push. A straight line is abhorrent, not when it can riddle you with the bends at every patch of silence in your mind. It can sicken you with your own thoughts, a disease of constant reinfection, the garden you cannot escape.
It wants odes. It wants poetic overtures. It wants blood and bones and bodies on blocks. It does not want what I do not want: a single straightforward conversation.
As we are in agreement on that, or so it appears, it would go quite swimmingly. A breathless drive-home,
So it draws in outrageous lies,
This dark spectre would have me worship it. It would have me on my knees. It would have me tell you it has no name. But it’s depression. And it has the power I cede it. And I do often cede that power. I am tired. I am tired of loneliness and feeling separate from myself, from anxiety hamstringing my simplest attempts to struggle towards improvement, I am tired of feeling as though I am alone and at square one and imperfect. And at such risk of being found out as such. Of being vulnerable to anyone’s thoughts.
It is such…fog. Such lies. Such pablum. Such idiocy to believe that you are nothing when you are everything and everything runs like rays from the center of your being. All directions. All choices. All light. A smile and a like. Wake up, darling, wake up to what is. Clothing rustling. The urge to wash your hair, brush your teeth, and dream sweetly of a bird that breaks through the branches and into the open sky.