I’m not bitter in this depression. No, I am more thankful for what I have got, to cushion my fall from the bridge. It’s mostly fabrication, this depression – I know it. It comes from a half-lifetime of neurotic deities, spinning their indie white boy musings around as echoes in my head. I convinced myself that sorrow was the only way to feel the soul.

Some people take pills for their ills. They pop them like sugar cubes into their mouths – gaping at their daily escape to sanity. They heave sanity like a boulder each day, just to feign animation. Others will talk on and on about their issues, leaving the rest of us in blearing boredom; but at least they’re feeling okay. The remainders take to sweet surrender, nourishing panic attacks with red wine and ****** paintings.

Nothing matters anymore. Not the Damascus Road to scaly eyes and computer screens; or giving your life to spreadsheets for the boss with his eyes on your skirt. I see no God up in the sky now, as the adverts pollute the stars, and I see no science in all of this self-pity; as a white guy has very little to complain about.

Everyone is just a representation of a memory now. Each conversation feels like an abstraction from some ancient, fevered dream. They criss-cross my life in every decreasing patterns – old friends now nothing but a passing, reluctant nod. Family spin yarn around me, and let me laze on the couch, but never can I tell them of the places I have found myself in. Trust is blankness. I’ll give you all of it now, because there’s nothing left to hurt.