Skip to main content

Fixing Yourself.

Nothing is more shameful than wasting youth on something as useless and repugnant as depression. Of all the maladies, depression is the most malignant symptom of western frivolity. It cannot be assuaged by logic because its presence was not born of reason.


While the majority of the world struggles to survive, scrounging the sand for a morsel or a drop, a depressive individual struggles to silence themselves. It is frustrating to face an enemy who is identical to ones paltry reflection. Doubts can crush all basis of perception, rendering the most charming individual into a cacophonous disaster of ludicrous pessimism.


If we could amputate the diseased legions of a mind without sacrificing the freedom of our thoughts, all of us in maudlin company would be saved from our self-destructive caprices. Often times, a lobotomy is disguised through the regiment of medication. Lawsuits are less merited if all the brain is preserved within a patient's skulls after all. But it seems that finding solace in drugs is as effective as a bandage on a gangrenous gash.


One must learn to adapt to an altogether absurd and unbearably idiotic condition, despite the magnetic draw of self-pity. A disfigured mind must be illuminated to its childish habits in order to assume its previous charm.


Oddly enough, no body seems to understand that all nonsensical demons can be banished if presented with an excellent piece of chocolate cake. But I suppose this prescription would be irrevocably detrimental to the financial success of a therapist's office.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

I Can't Hear Your Little Red Rooster

Fright

I call this room Home.

He will not look at me

His eyes flicker with

a speck of violence.



my strained smile,

disgusted by

my pleading eyes.

my veins freeze

icy blood

tearing through coronaries




May Day

'Hope, you don't have to use it on your wedding night.'

She handed the pistol to Hope, right after the vows, right before the reception.

'I'm just kidding, darling. Don't worry. He's a good man. You did well sweetheart. He's a good man. You'll be fine.'

Hope's paper-thin smile tried to grow as she stared at her grandmother's reflection in the mirror. The mother-of-pearl grip sparkled in her grandmother's hand, bathed by the Chapel's cheap buzzing lights.

'There's a bullet for you, just in case.'

Hope had left the gun on the table.

A week earlier, drunk off self-pity, she had taken it out of its case and walked to the kitchen, where she stuck the barrel in her mouth and proceeded to take pictures of herself to send to Ray.

In a rare instance of good fortune, her phone ran out of battery before she could indulge her sense of pithy revenge. She woke up and pried open her tear-salted eyelashes then made sure to delete an…