Doctors and Clinical Psycologists diagnose Depression as:

A mood disorder causing a persistent feeling of sadness or lost of interest.

Sadness however is just a side affect of depression.

The real culprit is exhaustion.

Exhaustion
that the world hasn't changed.
Exhaustion
that your career hasn't changed.
Exhaustion
that you are poor.
Exhaustion
that your family or other people around you havent changed.
Exhaustion
because you cant seem to fit in with them.
Exhaustion
you cant seem to change your appearance.
Exhaustion
because you cannot change your personality.
Exhaustion
because you are recognized for a fake smile.

Or maybe

Exhaustion
because you are not recognized at all.


Exhaustion strikes because you are ultimately unable to change the mechanics in the grand machine that is your life.

You are stuck in a never ending loop.
A cycle of what you feel is a wasted life.

A life you feel you are powerless to change because you are too exhausted
to do so.

This is the true meaning of depression:

The desperate, crippling, aching, hurt you feel.
The heavy signs you release at the end of the day.
The anger that rips and shakes through your body.
The screams and sobs you let fly deep into your pillow so nobody hears.
The silent pool of tears that stream down your face at night.
The ones that cling and stain your cheek.

All the emotions that stop when you finally sleep, when everything stops and you are taken by the dark void of a dreamland, when the exhaustion finally ends.

With a life like ours
can you really blame the exhausted,
For wanting to sleep forever?

I don't believe in Cain and Abel.
It is, like, a fairy tale; a fable.
If the world had no glocks,
We could defend ourselves with rocks.

To meet a stranger twice
is an anomaly we all see.
Our paths meet again
because I had looked away the first time,
because you had stared straight into my eyes
and walked on and on until you thought it was safe to look back
tenderly.

Life throws us against each other and screams
silently for us to say something,
has 'Hello' become a tongue-twister?
what about 'Hey' or 'Nice day'?

Now I stare at my feet
because if our eyes meet
I won't be able to look away
and then I'll have to speak words
but that might ruin it all
so hush and
rush and
pretend this is the end
to our series of anomalies
because I haven't the courage
to make it a beginning
unless we start
together.

It's raining
and I have to change my outfit.
This must be the world's way of telling me
that I can't predict and script tomorrow,
that, or that I should get a weather app.

a thigh gap
a peering spine
a cat eye
a cerulean highlighter
all of this and more
all of this, yours
21 mind-blowing *** tricks
5 ways to convince your doc you've ADHD
all of this and more
hack your closet
hack your pantry
your cellar door
all of this, yours
an e-thank you note
Facebook status remorse
an it's complicated
all of this and more
self-checkout
automatic hand dryer
automatic towel dispenser
automatic doors
all of this, yours
ask Siri where to bury the body
ask Jeeves where to buy the Molly
Google "the triumph of death"
and salute it with Bacardi
all of this
all of this
42 celebrities who used to have braces
8 Instagram hotties we love
42 gin recipes sure to inspire envy
all of this and more
how to love yourself
how to be a gentleman
how to make sure you marry the one
all of this yours
******* that read Angel Off Duty
boxers that read Reporting for Duty
ride the escalator all the way to
Jesus's heaven
fist bump Little Richard
and that kid from Malcolm in the Middle
watch St. Peter wave all the **** sorority girls
who've recently died in drunk driving accidents
to the front of the line
breathe, in from the nose out from the nose,
pick up a copy of Men's Health and read
an article titled
69 ways to incorporate gravy into the bedroom TONIGHT
all of this and more
all of this, yours

The schoolteacher had an affair in Santa Fe.
She was a schoolteacher and a tourist.
And an affair adds dimension.
It makes a place more than memory.
The notion of it inverts.
Santa Fe now resided inside of the schoolteacher.
The city had a cracked voice and blonde hair
and a slightly sagging belly and pictures
of a New York niece on its phone and
an ambivalent relationship with combing its hair
and an irrational fear of left turns.
She expected young artists with vague academic worldviews,
chainsmokers talking loudly about point of view and Heidegger.
Instead the artists were retirees, painting nothing but landscapes
of red earth, attempting to improve on the natural world.
The schoolteacher did not like this kind of art.
It was trivial.
Wholly unnecessary.
Then the blonde artist walked up behind her
in a stucco gallery. He said, "You hate it don't you?"

"Yes."

She turned. He appeared to be in his early forties.

"Tourists never understand it."

"I'm not a tourist."

"You are. You've never been within the land."

"Don't talk to me like this."

"This is how women prefer to be talked to."

"Not this woman."

"Even you. You want to be told you're wrong.
'I look fat' No. 'Everybody hates me.' That's not true.
I'm skipping the stage where we agree. I'm going
straight to the stage where we are opposites.
Plus and minus."

"The part where we *****."

"Or connect or lose ourselves."

"I bet you live in a loft. Dozens of half-finished
canvases strewn about. Dabs of dried paint on
newspapers."

"I live in my big sister's basement. She isn't home."

"There's not enough wine in the world."

"That's where you're wrong," he said.

And if they get together
anything's possible,
whether instant infidelity or
absolute combustion.

One more way to alleviate tension,
to land mine
the curious,
to ooh,
to ahh.