It is that empty feeling inside you feel when you have been crying for hours, but without shedding a single tear. There is usually very little crying involved, because sweet depression takes away all your feeling. You want to express that sadness through releasing tears, but they never come.

When you are happy, there is always that reminder in the back of your brain that you will come down from this, and you will probably come down fast. But when you are up, you are so high, your mind is shouting to yourself with a tone of saccharine promise "I won't be sad again! I have nothing to be sad about! I am lucky to be alive, now I am going to live my life and be HAPPY!". It is almost like being drunk, being happy. It is temporary madness that leaves you with interesting memories and confusion to why you were like that in the first place.

It is sickeningly comforting, knowing that depression will always be there for you.
At the end of a long day, after a party, in a few months time...
depression will be there. But it won't greet you with open arms, no, that's not it's style.
It will great you with the gradual disintegration of your mind, a sadistic smile and some cellophane to watch the rest of the world through.

When you feel like you are walking on broken glass,
and your eyes are always tired.

When you feel like you are walking on splintered wood,
and your eyes are almost closed.

When you feel like you are walking on ice so cold it burns,
when your skin is being pierced and your eyes are crying,
when your feet are swollen and there's a lump in your throat
and complete emptiness inside;


                                                                                If only I could carry you.

"When can we learn about Dragons?"
Not now, we are studying the formula.
"When can we dance in the rain?"
Not now, we must do our chores.
"When can we be pirates?"
Not now, we don't have a ship.
"When can we go on an adventure?"
Do we have swords or sticks? Do we have bravery and noble steeds? No.
"Can we imagine?"*
There's no time for that.

I remember the last time I went surfing.
I loved every second of it. I loved running out into the icy water, the chill taking a second to hit the vulnerable skin under my wetsuit. Those fleeting seconds of running ankle deep in the water before realizing how cold it is, and the moments following where I just kept running anyway, my body and board becoming dispersed in sea froth. I loved feeling my feet sink into the grainy sand as I gradually reach a depth that touches above my waist, then, bracing myself for the numbing cold, diving onto my board, immersing my top half in the crisp temperature the water holds. After the piercing cold is absorbed by my skin, and I am lying flat on smooth fiberglass, I see a wave forming in the distance. In a hurry, paddling madly, grazing my hands on the fiberglass sides of the board, desperate to get deep enough to catch the wave. I turn the board around and feel the wave coming behind me. This is the moment. The moment that feels like waiting for your plane to take off, or waiting for a raffle to be drawn, hoping desperately to hear your name called out. I feel the swell behind me, and continue paddling, facing the shore this time. I can feel it as a powerful but consistent surge brings the nose of my board up, and I hurry to lift myself up. I am crouching. My hands nervously let go of the sides. I am bent over. I am straightening. I am standing. My palms are flailing madly, but feel free in the warmer air. Within seconds, I lose my balance and the rush pulls me under. I fall off the board and take a mouthful of seawater. I emerge, laughing, trying to stabilize my focus and figure out whereabouts on the beach I am. As I drag the board back to shore, the salty sea water is already drying in my hair, fingernails and skin. I feel the familiar crunch of dry sand, and collapse, laughing, into the soft grains. I could do this again.

I was so excited to finally have my own surfboard. Brand new, I just hadn't had the chance to take it out yet. My brother asked to borrow it one day, and I couldn't see why not. He helped me attach the fins and leg rope, and I watched him walk away with my latest investment.

I was going into the garage to find something when I saw it there, in half, the fiberglass peeled towards the nose, the insides stuffed with sand, lying in a pile. The next day, my brother came home to find me waiting for him outside his room. "I have good and bad news! The bad news is, I broke your surfboard, the good news is, you now have two boogie boards!". I am sitting.

Once I tore a piece from the back of the Sunday paper.
The piece told a story of an old lady who was being kicked out of her knitting class because she insisted on bringing her cat each time.
I didn't necessarily like the story, but I heard my father, upon glancing at the title ("One cat that won't have knits"), proclaim questionably "who is going to read this crap!?".
I decided then that I would read it. I kept the story in the back pocket of my worn jeans.
I felt bad for that lady- maybe she didn't have any friends at her knitting class?
But mostly, I felt bad because I knew that no one was going to read her story.

I probably won't have a story of my own in the paper any day, and If I did, I wouldn't want it to be about bringing my cat to knitting classes. But even if that is what it was about, I would want someone to read it. I'd want someone to gasp over it, or laugh, or rip it out and keep it in their faded blue jeans. I won't have an article, but I will have a story. I just don't want to have a story that a middle aged man, sitting in his dressing gown and slippers, drinking hot coffee would scoff over, and ask "who is going to read this!?".

If I put a flower in my hair, will you think I am pretty?
If I drink with you, will you think I'm fun?
I have loved you for so long, I'd do anything to be that for you.

If I read you my books, will you think I am smart?
If I sing you my songs, will you think I am talented?
I have loved you for so long, I'd read you my prose and teach you my lyrics.

If I sat down next to you, would you want my company?
If we watched a movie, would you like my choice?
I have loved you for so long, I'd sit next to you through a movie with no plot line.

If I told you a joke, would you think I am funny?
If I told you a story, would it make you cry?
I have loved you for so long, I laugh and cry about how I feel 'us'.