Its more than “depression.” Its more than a “manic moment.” Its more than a “mood swing.”
Its so much more.
Sitting alone in a dark room with nothing to shield you from those god forbidden thoughts. That’s what it is. Its thoughts and feelings manifesting themselves into a ravenous creature, ready to strip away at your flesh, if only to savor the taste of epidermis. Its a cancer that slowly eats away at you until there’s little to nothing left, and keeps it that way to prolong misery. Its having hundreds of starving piranhas digging their sharp claws into your body time after time after time until all that was your body is nothing more than a jagged, torn, sheet of linen. Its the slowest of poisons, shutting every piece of your insides down just quickly enough for you to remember what the lack of prior sensation is - or was. A poison that always saves the best for last. A poison that starts, but never finishes.
It is scorn. It is indifference.
It is infiltration of love and trust, and disassembling of relationships and emotions. It is loss of purity. Abduction of bliss. It is, short of nothing, corruption of soul and awakening nightmares. It is the darkest point in dusk. The deepest of shadows. It is heaviness - a heaviness the likes of which their is no lifting. It is the weight of the world, for what it’s worth.
It is sitting alone in a dark room. It is paranoia. It is anxiety, a spider tip-toeing up a limb, familiarizing itself with every inch, eagerly taking its time to bend and bite, knowing it cannot be stopped. It is insomnia, fear of sleep and lucidity. It is fear.
Fear, realized.
Trauma, realized.
It is fractioning of the soul, to split it into pieces, half by half, quarter by quarter, eighth by eighth, sixteenth by sixteenth, and so on. Every strike, quick and nimble, in order to reduce pain. It is futile attempts to reduce pain. Its pathetic.
It is sitting alone in a dark room. For what it is, its feeling a dense wall within yourself. It is feeling yourself. How empty you are. It is you. It is feeling and acknowledging an immense indifference to your very existence. It is undermining through acquiescence. It is accepting and allowing the mind to core the very existence of oneself, much like the coring of a tangible entity. It is rejection of the donated heart. It is becoming a shell.
It is so much more.
It is waking up to nothing. It is wearing a smile. Wearing a frown. Donning tears. It is the raising of voices; shrieks falling on deaf ears. It is conversing with a mute person, with no regards to sign language. It is color blindness, in a world full of color. It is coexisting with injustice. It is hearing the gods look down and laugh at mere mortality, and joining in. It is indifferent irony.
It is sitting alone in a dark room. It is bleakness. Futility, itself. It is grey. It is monochrome. It is an acknowledged lack of atonement. There is no atonement. It is mortality. And love of mortality. It is love of many things. It is love of forbidden fruit. It is love of indifference. It is love of rejection. It is obliviophilia; love of nothing. It is finding love within being a shell. It is safety within nothingness.
It is rejection of all the scorn and the indifference and the lack of appreciation and the pain, the excruciating pain endured. It is fear of the aforementioned.
It is sitting alone in a dark room. It is certification of the love for being lost within nothing and it is fear of being trapped within oneself. It is fear of losing to nothing. It is a fear of imminence. Of being consumed. It is wanting to feel, no matter how scarring it could ever hope to be. It is feeling absolutely nothing - and not being able to. It is comfort within feeling empty and feeling alone and feeling unappreciated and it is love for isolation, but it is fear of being forgotten and it is anger for being ignored and it is lack of understanding for the “why” of it all in the first place. It is wanting to understand.
It is where futility takes its roost once more.
So it is sitting alone in a dark room. In stagnant space. Stagnant reality. Stagnant existence. It is not existing at all. It is sitting quietly and being nothing. Because nothing is all there is to be. It is coming to terms. With indifference and injustices and lack of appreciation and love and trust and splitting of the soul and being alone and embracing the destiny that one shall be alone because alone is safety and alone is eternal and alone will always be and what will always be is alone and right. It is acquiescence, in its most raw, guttural forms, and it is disgusting and beautiful because destiny is imminence and alone will always be. So to be undermined will never be because it embracing of that which is imminent and alone and stagnant and nothing and it is nothing, nothing but love for the entirety of that.
What it is, for what it is, is sitting alone in dark room.
