In quintessential triviality for years in this fleshcase a shesoul dwelt.

i was thinking about this the other day.  depression is a mind block.  it is a wall.  a wall you can throw and throw yourself against, but can't see past.  a heavy, singular view. one eyed.  one overwhelming focus.  it blocks everything you have loved and even small bits of rationale from your power.

the thing is, there is so much pain that you can focus on nothing else. even when you temporarily shift your focus on something else, there it is, buzzing underneath.  just waiting to surface again.  you can feel it.  you can feel it all along, and as soon as people leave your presence, or a certain thing triggers some sort of memory--a song on the radio, passing a place--you break down again.

there is so much pain that you simply cannot cope with its force.   it is always coming.

you can reason with yourself. it's not so bad.  it's not your fault. those are some good ones.  or, think about something else.   you shouldn't be thinking about this.  in all essence, your logical sense may know these things to be right.  but reason is flimsy in the path of the battering ram.  you can tell yourself not to think about something, but it is buzzing in your skull all the same.  you can tell yourself it's not your fault, but when your mind is built to force that feeling on you, it will, no matter what.  

in the deep pain of depression, the same delirium and madness of a wounded man sets in.  there are things that cannot get through to you. the mind is frantic.

under this wall i have reasoned that people who have loved me have not, and that everything they have ever told me was a lie, and that i was nothing.  and that i have never meant anything to anyone. there is nothing but the fog of pain and how it doesn't cease.  you cannot see beyond it.  in fact, you become familiar with its confines.  so much so, that you may not even want to see beyond it anymore.  there is nothing you can do.

i realize even in that pall of darkness, there are little, even stupid things i still love.  and to love is to live.  there is no separating it. even these gritty little loves i have between my fingertips.  a pen. a book, with words i love.  dirt.  your hair, or mine. and other things that keep me here.  that child that loves the little things. she is the one. she loves the smallest weed flowers, those little lavender ones, with yellow middles, like sleep-winked eyes.  she loves things that drop from trees--acorns and leaves.  she loves the thistle and she loves the rocks at the edge of the creek.  she was sad when they killed the ivy choking the tree.  it springs beautiful purple flowers.  do not kill that child.  she is weak, she is small, she is foolish, but she is here.  she is the one who curled against him in the field. she is the one who peeked at him shyly.

and i say i love without moving my lips. and there so many silly things to love like a child--just because.  i love banjos!  i love holding hands. i love exotic names.  Sitala.  Pottawamie. Devereaux. Lucrezia.  Ballycullen. Zhurakovskaya.  Django.  Okala.  i would like to meet someone with a name given to an island in the Aegean.  i love dogs. i want to have another dog someday.  i can't have that if i go.  i love to sing.  there is someone who will hear me out. i want to memorize dozens. i love wading in water.  i would like to find a little blue crab with you.  i love going barefoot.  i love catching snowflakes on your tongue.  i would love to see the snowflakes in your hair.   i love discovering the minutia.  street signs, houses with names, allusions, people with secrets that brand them, give them their own color.  i love climbing magnolia trees.  i love playing board games.  i love cows.  i love wide fields.  i love the idea of going to Nebraska, or Wyoming. i love capturing things--photos. words. drawings...fuck, fireflies.  i haven't caught fireflies in years. 

and there are things i am not yet.
i want to reach my goal weight.  as i will be the person i envisioned, and i believe, unafraid.  i will maybe for once be able to look in the mirror and not worry, because i will have tried and done.

i want to learn to play an instrument. guitar. or fucking banjo. or both. there is time in this life.  i don't mean become an expert.  just simple.  so i can play for myself.  i want to learn to play folk and blues songs.

i want to make illuminated poetry.  words with color and flowering from the page, trace the forms of my mind, so that the senses will be gripped not by darkness, but by their color, even if for an instant, it will be worth it.  the newness of it, everytime you flip back to a page, will come back again.  even if it is only for myself.  i do these things not for others, or for money.  there is no hope for monetary compensation or even recognition, really.  i realize what i do is not expansive.  it will not affect all who see it.  it is not even revolutionary.  it is simple effulgence.  in my mind, when i see it, i will feel.

and i know i am young, and this may seem out of place, but one thing, that really, really makes me want to stay here, and not go out, is that i want to have a baby.  with someone i love.  i really do.  i do not mean soon.  i just mean someday.  i want to go through all of that.  i want to have that swollen stomach and fucking feel that pain only to know another face that is partially my own.  that will be the greatest creation i have.

there are many things i could say.  if i stop, i will not say them.

and someday, someone will love me back and i will not doubt it for a moment.