Oversimplified

There are some of us who lose things in the process of living. There are those who by refusing to die, leave an essence of what it is to live behind them. They become, in a sense, chameleons. They change their nature to their surroundings, and wonder why they feel like they are missing something all the time. 

There is nothing real about the word recovery. Life is a solo experience. Every stanza is separate to the ones that came before, and the ones that will come after. So, recovery is what? A transposition? A translation? An attempt to mash your life through a differently shaped hole. I am a triangle, the future is a square. Things do not go back to how they were before. They don’t. They never have. They never will. Those of you who raise eyebrows at this are merely excellent self-illusionists. 

So, there are those of us, by which I mean those of you who understand what I am writing, and I. There are those of us who in attempting to go forward, realise that we can’t go backward. We push our rigid angles at the unforgiving shape of the future, and no matter how many helping hands you have, a triangle won’t go through a square shaped hole. We are missing those pieces of ourselves; we can never be square again.

This is a sense of what depression is. An abstract sensation that you do not belong in your own skin. A cold fire in your mind that exists only to remind you of what you do not have. Of what you are missing. That things are never how they were.