Depression, prose by Marie-Thérèse Hartwig at Spillwords.com
Jan Kopriva

Depression

Depression

written by: Marie-Thérèse Hartwig

 

First it takes away the joy.
Your concentration trickles like sand
through widespread fingers of a hand.
Then the colours go and what once was Kodachrome is shades of grey and always slightly out of focus.
What I miss most is the peace.
There used to be a time when I thought death would bring me peace but this is not the one I want.
I want the peace of all living creatures,
my dog sleeping after dinner, the trees in the woods with swaying branches, the rain falling steadily.
Even though these things are still there, I am no longer a part of them. My mind races manically to find release, some change that would make it alright again. Something I could own, something I could be, somewhere I could go?
But I know in my heart it won’t work.
You move through this like wading through oil carpets in the sea, picking up dead seagulls.
The best moment of the day is when I wake up, the hot breath of my dog on my ear, her warmth, her snout pushing me gently and asking for breakfast with a lick over my face.
So we get up and walk around the block.
That’s when it hits me. My mind disintegrates and while my dog has her breakfast, I have my coffee with a Valium to face another day.

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