Pulled Under to Find Something Real

Dear Depression,

I did not expect you, but you invited yourself in and found me in the centre of the room, hustling for approval. I held hostages with my stories. I was coloured brighter then, hiding my limp so carefully.

You sent many ambassadors to my door and one after another they took up space around the coffee table until it became quite crowded. Then, no space to move at all. I should have said something. Instead I watched and became so still. Silence has its own pressure.

How many of us describe you as water, or a horror within it? We draw you with tentacles. When anyone asks, we say, "I feel like I'm drowning."

You took everything away from me; my sense of self, my curiosity, my pleasure, my ability to forecast the future or imagine myself happy there.

You also took away what wasn't real, what couldn't hold or sustain. You shooed away all fair-weathered feathers who lined up along my window, squawking for scraps.

You destilled me into a purer form. I no longer worry if I'm fit for consumption. I couldn't care less. Instead I ask:

What feeds me? What fuels my desire? Where can I find some peace here? No other questions are important now. You took all distractions out with the tide.

Because I am still here, gasping, thrashing, fighting for my life, I know how much I want it. For this, I thank you.

Sincerely, the Artist.