I've done it again. Depression is an art, like everything else. It occurs to me quite exceptionally.

Truly exhausted of asking myself. I have this fear of not really going anywhere with this on my shoulders. I have stopped writing because it no longer breathes into me. On occassions it does. But not like before that it raises me up from my well of hell despite my lows. I was scared that the one thing that holds me together has slipped like the sands of time in my loosening hands. I saw it coming but not this soon. The walls are closing in on me and they're on fire.