Another poem about that one word.
Depression is more like grief. It's a crushed feeling. A grinding into dust. A shattering. A grating apart like flour forced through a sifter. A parasitic tapeworm of the soul. A weight on my chest, so heavy I can hardly breathe, producing the panic of an asthma attack, as if I am about to die.
Gratitude is never first on the scene. Like anger, it's a reaction only, more often a choice, and when consistently pursued, a habit. Like other emotions, it's a fuel. But unlike depressive states, it's not a fuel that burns me down to ashes, it's a fuel that drives me forward. It's flexible to any kind of attack, has no end, and it can roll any which way. Like a sphere, I suppose. Love is also like that. To me, gratitude in the midst of my circumstances, no matter what they are, is an expression of love toward my God; an unwritten love letter lived out.
A poem about the relentless pursuit of my Love through all my darkness and storms.
I've written a lot while in the throes of depression to give you a glimpse into my mindset while I'm in the deep, but I haven't written about mania while I'm in the midst of it yet. ...Well. This should be interesting.
N.'s artwork was beautiful. In the way a mausoleum is beautiful. Or a dark forest. Or an abandoned silo. Or even a ghost town. Otherworldly. Tragic. Magnetic. Haunting. Fascinating. Profound when pondered. ...Disturbing, as only death and neglect and long-accepted despair can be. N. was "other." Apart. And none of us dared go near him.
Strands of keratin. They slide between my fingers and I think-- Where were we, Love, when this small space at the end of the lengths were new, emerging like buds of Spring from scalp and skin?