To keep a routine, that's the thing,
that's what keeps it at bay. But
is that not just playing a game -
the shaving, the brushing, the toenail-
trimming every four weeks?
I think depression is no more
than the sudden dropping of pretence.
You keep up your image, because
that is what works, and then when
you should be at your happiest, it comes
like meteors come - not with the cold
efficiency of a mechanical bird,
but like the damning hellfire
of a heavenly body curved off-path.
Say you are going for a walk,
and it is Spring, and say your
love-of-the-moment is a short
distance away, as silent as peace
because she knows how you can get.
Say it is the first bright day,
but still chilly - the moon, having
been on a binge all night, holds
a silent tune so blissfully, a
dog whistle in the deep blue, and say
the fields are endless sheathes,
the crosshatch reeds of farmed corn
forming a mosaic riddle on the ever-
stubborn mud, and there are ghostly
rainbows in the hidden puddles,
and it is joyful unlike anything,
and there's the feeling of being lost
as a child is, comfortably lost, unphased
and focused only on the patch of
ground in front - the only patch
that is, not a patch on what's behind.
And say you feel a smile arrive
and you feel too clean, if anything,
too new and looked after, like a baby,
and just as quick you think: this is not the idea,
this is not my retirement, how dare I pretend
I deserve a moonlit walk in the middle
of the day, how dare I play this game?
What next? Will I drink the sun?
Jan 20, 2014
Jan 20, 2014 at 6:33 PM UTC
To keep a routine, that's the thing,
that's what keeps it at bay. But
is that not just playing a game -
the shaving, the brushing, the toenail-
trimming every four weeks?
I think depression is no more
than the sudden dropping of pretence.
You keep up your image, because
that is what works, and then when
you should be at your happiest, it comes
like meteors come - not with the cold
efficiency of a mechanical bird,
but like the damning hellfire
of a heavenly body curved off-path.
Say you are going for a walk,
and it is Spring, and say your
love-of-the-moment is a short
distance away, as silent as peace
because she knows how you can get.
Say it is the first bright day,
but still chilly - the moon, having
been on a binge all night, holds
a silent tune so blissfully, a
dog whistle in the deep blue, and say
the fields are endless sheathes,
the crosshatch reeds of farmed corn
forming a mosaic riddle on the ever-
stubborn mud, and there are ghostly
rainbows in the hidden puddles,
and it is joyful unlike anything,
and there's the feeling of being lost
as a child is, comfortably lost, unphased
and focused only on the patch of
ground in front - the only patch
that is, not a patch on what's behind.
And say you feel a smile arrive
and you feel too clean, if anything,
too new and looked after, like a baby,
and just as quick you think: this is not the idea,
this is not my retirement, how dare I pretend
I deserve a moonlit walk in the middle
of the day, how dare I play this game?
What next? Will I drink the sun?
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