The world feels different in depression. The walls are suffocating, the corridors are cold, people are desolate and lonesome. Drowning. Everyone is drowning, but everyone is good at disillusioning themselves that things matter. And your mind is walking the tightrope between sanity and insanity.

Your mind is striking a match, lighting a flame of hope again and again and again and you’re tired of trying, tired of surging, tired of forging, tired of fighting. The flame goes out again and again, again, a meagre flame that could light up the path for nobody.

And you’re comforting, reassuring but you’re footsteps are faltering, you’re stumbling, yet you’re catching yourself and you’re tired. So very tired. So tired you just want to close your eyes and sleep.

I’ll just die for a while. Just a little while. Just to shut everything out.

The trying, the drowning, the black water. The suffocating.

Just a little while.
Please, I want to go.

And it’s real.
The place is real.

Everywhere is a dead end, and you’re tainting the world with trauma.
Every street, every room, every person, every thing you hold and touch, painted with pain and fear.

That is depression.

Feeling like you’ll never reach the end of the tunnel, but only because your vision is failing you and that pinprick of light evades your sight.