Painting by Ramon Casas i Carbo

Lying on the couch, living on coffee and chocolates, which date back to the year you still don’t want to think about, because it brings back memories of how the crowd erupted and smeared your face with cake, and bought you presents, for it was your birthday. It’s been two years. Tomorrow is again your big day, but you haven’t taken a bath in two weeks and a half. You’re sure the only thing erupting this time would be your mom’s call trying to make up for the loss.

The loss you created. Cutting all the strings that held you to the people that you called yours, you’ve entangled yourself in a pool of things that were for others to handle.

The strings lie all around you wrapping up everything, and nothing at all. You repeatedly scroll up for new messages but all you see is advertisements about getting ombre hair. It reminds you of the time, you did your hair on Saturday nights, nice and crisp, and it strikes you, it was before you drowned five thousand feet into heartbreak.

Now, if everything you’ve read, in your perspective seems depressing, I think you would want to stop. Because I would say it once, then twice, then as many times ad it takes for you to believe that your idea of depression is deceptive, it’s glamorous. Not having ever been under depression, I’d be lying, if I say I can explain you all of it, but putting aside all hypocrisy I know for one, it isn’t a definable state of mind. You can’t put it in a box, in words, in songs. It just is.

Depression wakes up to a bright sky, hoping the sun wouldn’t shine. Depression doesn’t kick in and sleep for longer; it kicks out all blankets, puts on disguises to hide hopelessness and goes about the day. Depression hates caffeine and music. Depression doesn’t talk itself out loud. It lives insides, bangs and screams in silence. Depression cannot cry. It has run out of everything that can flow. Depression bites its tongue and whimpers at every sound that escapes the mouth. Depression is monosyllabic. Depression has unanswerable questions. Depression never has answers. Depression shakes a lot. Depression is a faker. Depression cannot tell itself apart, it loses parts of it in crowds. For Heaven’s sake, depression cannot even spell itself; it is usually around a group of people, preparing to introduce itself as, F-I-N-E. Depression begs you to stop glamorizing it.

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Submitted to ArtParasites by Mariya Nadeem

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