me.sery

depression is such a narcissistic disease. only when you value yourself so highly, do you feel so utterly worthless. sorrow is one man’s struggle to be happy. want of strength is a desperate independence. loneliness is the incapacity to love.

so on.

lose hope in yourself, so you can finally feel hopeful in others.

My Physiology Expresses It Better

I can’t drink very well. Last night I had 3 shots of tequila and
2 shots of whiskey. I was completely floored, literally rolling
on the floor, crying, twitching, in spastic, orgasmic sadness.

My body knew how to express sadness that my mind couldn’t, or
wouldn’t. I didn’t know I had so much inside. I cried like a
bomb.

I don’t know if it was good for me… but I seem to feel better,
for now. I don’t have the alcoholic in me (I hope not!). The
drunkenness that was intended as an escape turned into a
semi-religious experience of the ordinary.

I, of course, will move on with my life, whatever that means. For
this morning, it means going to the gym (as usual), and this
afternoon, going for an interview.

But I do not want to run away, and I do not want to let cognitive
dissonance get the better of it, or to intellectualize it to
Stoic blandness. I want it to remain a real sorrow that is truly
mine, rather than of the world, displaced, vicariously
experienced.

For once, I want to be honest.

And all my friends that cared, you are more dear to me than
anything else in the world. I will love you, when I can.

I Shouldn’t, But Who Wouldn’t?

God I feel wretched. Really shouldn’t… but who wouldn’t? Here goes the sublimination.

Fantasy

Have you heard of the giant who stood taller than
a giraffe, so that he was frightened by the thought
of crushing others by the weight of his love?

His hands were the size of the jaws of a
hippopotamus, and his step could flatten a
horse. When he was fired up by passion, the ground
trembled to the rhythm of his heart, and those
close by could feel the wind of his radiating
heat.

But he dared not to love, for fear of crushing
others. He stood far away from everyone else, so
at a distance, he would seem smaller, and more
ordinary, so more acceptable.

He fell in love with a tiny girl, smaller than
anyone he had ever seen, yet more real than anyone
he had known. She smelled like grass from a
faraway continent, wet with morning dew. And she
laughed her tiny laughs that (it seemed to him)
are louder than thunders. He didn’t know her name,
for her name tag was too tiny to read.

Nor did the giant know how to love her. How, with
his outsized arms, could he hug her tiny peapod body?

So he walked further away from everyone, and her,
so he may seem still smaller. Just when he was so
far away that he could no longer hear anyone
speaking, he realized that perhaps she seemed so
tiny only because he imagined her so close. She
was in fact a giant much larger than him, standing
far far far away, whose love could crush to dust
every bone in his body.

He dared not to go back.

Sadness

He forgot where he left his sadness.

He looked everywhere for it. He seemed to remember
to have put it in a box labeled “no. 37” in the
guestroom closet, along with memories of her, books
half read, and heroes still adored, but no longer
worshipped.

The search took possession of his mind.

Precisely because he couldn’t find his sadness
anywhere, he expected to find it everywhere. He
knew he looked under his pillow countless times,
each time finding nothing there. Yet every morning
waking up, he looked under the same pillow
nevertheless, with the peculiar expectation of
finding something out of nothing.

His sadness is still nowhere to be found.

Reality

“She never existed!” the philosopher concluded,
victorious, “for all that she was, she who I loved
so much, was the construct of my mind, figaments
of my imagination.”

He smiled the satisfied smile of a sage.

“Ah yes, but you feel pain– and I refute you
thusly,” said a passing-by Sameul Johnson, as he
kicked the philosopher’s shin.

Feeling the pain, the philosopher sat down on his
favourite rock, and started to think.

Hope

A daemon sat by himeslf crying, for he no longer
could fly. There were still so many blessings and
love in his charge to give, but he could no longer
fly. The joy and happiness he must share, but
could not, weighed heavily on his shoulders,
anchoring him to Earth.

So the daemon of happiness and joy became known
among the villagers for his profound sorrow. A
river of tear ran through the village, springing
from where he sat. But the water was too bitter
for fish to thrive.

“If only the sun would come out for long enough,”
muttered the daemon, crying into his hands, “then
the wetness that weighs down my wings would
evaporate, so I can fly again.” But the sun never
did come out for long enough, so the daemon kept
crying into his river of tear.

Parents warned their children of ever going near
the unlucky daemon, for fear of their drowning in
his sorrow.

One day a little girl from the city came to visit,
picking daisies and finding four-leaf clovers in
the meadows. She was delighted to find the meadow
where the daemon sat blooming with daisies of all
kinds and constellations of the lucky clovers,
nourished by his tear.

There she met the crying daemon. With daisy petals
and clovers in her hands, happy as only a child
could be, she looked at the crying daemon. Not
knowing who he was, the girl asked,

“Why are you crying?”

“My wings are heavy with wetness, so I cannot fly.”

“But they will dry. Will they not?”

“The sun never comes out for long enough.”

“Your wings are heavy because they are wet with
your tear. You don’t have to wait for the sun. All
you need is to stop crying,” said the naive little
girl.

“Stop crying?” the daemon blinked, “but my wings
are wet, and I cannot fly.”

“Well… there,” the little girl kissed the daemon
on the forehead, “you can stop crying now.”

Truth Is,

as a friend. as a friend. as a friend. as
a friend. as a friend. as a friend. I guess she’s
exonerating herself. Oh, I already said it’s “as a
friend”– it’s your own stupidity that’s the
problem. If it works out, hey, count yourself
lucky. If it doesn’t, go fuck yourself…

What an enviable position to be in.

“She”, generic, and in particular.

Courage

I was talking to Guillaume.. and I was reminded
how hard I struggled with my depression. And I
felt so sad. I am so much better now. But to know
that there’s this beast in me that has to be kept
in chain, that for whatever random reasons, it
might break loose again, I feel scared. I’ve done
everything I can to keep that from happening, and
more and more. That possibility is tending toward
statistical insignificance. I am proud.

Thanks, everyone.