I’d rather not talk about it, either.
Just for today, can we say? You
don’t want to, either, and yet I
persist. Down the rabbit hole
I go. Depression is a set of
circumstances that swirl around
in the gut until it builds a sink
hole beneath my feet. I grew
up in tornado alley. Saw only
one, despite hours and hours
of books over head in school
hallways, being cramped into
storm cellars with relatives.
My father was in one. All he
had to hold on to was a flag
pole. He rose like a flag, he
said, a tale I heard dozens of
times, holding on for dear life.
And then it was gone. Sinkholes
are like quicksand, once you sink
you’re stuck until someone pulls
you out. This happens around
the time the nostrils are about
even with the top of the swamp-
damp soil, a mud that, if you even
try to move, you’ll find yourself
deeper and deeper within. People
lose lives. All the time. I don’t
want to talk about it. So far, I’ve
survived. So far, I have relaxed
into it, taking the time to, well,
breathe, relax, contemplate
nothing, sinking further into an
oblivion that always seems so
well-deserved at the time. I
get out. It seems like luck, but
perhaps it’s just what we do,
what we get ourselves into,
perhaps it’s inherent, a way
to survive by almost not
surviving. A day or so later
and I’m thrumming with
energy, excitement, moti
vation. Historically. But
there’s always the notion
that swirls around and
slightly above the gloom
and doom that it won’t
always be this way. This
is only something that I
have thought about re
cently. It’s not the best
lingering thought to have,
as you may well know. To
survive requires discipline
and responsibility. But
requires more than that.
And sometimes I have less
than I need of the more
than that which is necessary.
Of that, there’s no remedy
sometimes but to wait
things out. Nevertheless,
there’s always things to
be done. To do lists that
keep one away from the
swamp. But the swamp
is inevitable. Fortunately,
I’m thus far always res
cued. Generally by my
own devices. Sometimes
by the generous of heart.
I used to have a generous
heart. Now the ticking of
my ticker feels more like
that of a stopwatch. I’ve
no idea what duration from
which it’s counting. I’m not
counting the ticks. I’m just
counting on being here a while.
