The Cloud

It's smelling the fragrance of cooking

Only to be unable to taste it.

I can see the onions cooking, see the garlic

Browning around the edges

But the oil splatters against dead skin.

The food, perfectly prepared and warm,

Is cold on my tongue and tasteless.

.

I can see the ripples of the sunset,

The slight difference between bright and dark

But there is a filter over my eyes

And it is all shades of grey.

I can run my hands through silken hair

And the sensation is stolen

By an invisible neuropathy of the mind.

.

The breeze blows against my face

But I smell the rain.

I smell the storm and the lightning

And miss the sun-drenched air

Floating like butterfly wings over my face.

When I see the butterfly,

I see its death.

The inevitable release of something I loved.

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I'm always at a bit of a loss when it comes to people not understanding depression and what it can be like especially at a high-functioning level. People understand being sad, generally. They understand grief, most of the time. But depression is something different. And I tend to think that people can't understand unless there is explanation and that art in any form is a fundamental human form of explanation.

All that to say, this is a weak stab at describing just the barest slice of depression.