depression (well mine at least) is boring. it is the same scene playing over and over in a different shade of grey.
it is the same story you’ve been hearing for years that wasn’t good the first time.
it is a heavy blanket wrapped around you that is both oddly comforting and totally suffocating.
it’s that friend that you call despite the fact that you never really enjoy talking to them. but hey, it’s something to do, it passes the time.
it is not exotic or exciting. it does not give you stories or offer you points of intrigue.
it is the object floating in the river that at first you think is an otter or a bird, maybe. but instead you realize it is a piece of wood, bobbing along with a mundanity that is almost embarrassing.
it is the same mediocre sex over and over (and over) again.
it is pleasure turned on its head with its insides ripped out.
it is painful and it is eerie.
it is where nothing and everything stop for a burnt, stale cup of coffee.
it is a place i know well. i have built a house here, planted a garden, met my neighbors.
and as the static shifts, as the land beneath my feet starts to give way, there is a mix of sadness and delight.
at what could be.
at what could come after this long season of in between.
becki's a practicing human 