Where there is depression there are not many other things.
It drapes itself across like an unwelcome former girlfriend, all buffed and glossed and tempting — the ease of it, how very simple it would be to slide right back into her, to slip beneath the covers with her. It lingers there while the light is still on and throws out its handkerchief, it cannot live without you, it needs you, it is part of you.
When depression is very viscous there is no one else in the world.
To walk into the street is an exercise in futility; they are all gone.
The cars are driven not by people but by mannequins from an alternate universe, just a hollowness with clothes.
Nothing hums or breathes or beats but it is a low-level silence; it is where the membranes of my ears have filmed over, so there is still me, shouting inside my head until the curtain goes up once again.
Someone I love is wandering there in the nothing. I hope we can find each other.