People say I'm obsessive, and I wholeheartedly agree. I'd die for a favorite artist, and I reread stories I like until I hate them. I force myself to love every song performed by "my band", to a point where I'm not entirely sure which of their tunes actually earned their place in my heart.
It brings to mind a modern-Hebrew term, "protektzia". It can be translated as social leverage, or "pull". Protektzia is when you are related to the administrator of an elite high school, or when you're friendly with the secretary of a sought-after doctor. It's as if songs walk up to me and say, "hey, I know I'm not that great, but I was written by so-and-so!"
All that changes when old Depression drops by. Suddenly, things I cared so much for are meaningless. It's like quarreling with a close friend. Although, I don't hate my former faves so much as scorn them, for being silly enough to exist.
Why does depression do this to me? Because depression is the drainage of passion. As a cow needs to be milked and a dripping air-conditioner needs a bucket, what are obsessions if not an outlet for the passion contained in the heart?
But neither are necessary when the cow is dead and the AC off.
Thankfully, depression to me is a mood rather than a condition, and so I host frequent reunions with my beloved idols.
You are all invited!

I've turned my guns to fists
But now i'm fighting
Along with all these other
Mutant kids
Fused at the wrist
Even though you told them
To shoot at this
Our demons are what we're fighting
And we can’t win

I try desperately to run through the sand
As I hold the water in the palm of my hand
'Cause it's all that I have and it's all that I need and
The waves of the water mean nothing to me
But I try my best and all that I can
To hold tightly onto what's left in my hand
But no matter how, how tightly I will strain
The sand will slow me down and the water will drain
I'm just being dramatic, in fact, I'm only at it again
As an addict with a pen, who's addicted to the wind
As it blows me back and forth, mindless, spineless, and pretend
Of course I'll be here again, see you tomorrow, but it's the end of today
End of my ways as a walking denial
My trial was filed as a crazy suicidal head case
But you specialize in dying, you hear me screaming "father"
And I'm lying here just crying, so wash me with your water
- Twenty one pilots

Nobody thinks what I think
Nobody dreams when they blink
Think things on the brink of blasphemy
I'm my own shrink
Think things are after me, my catastrophe
I'm a kitchen sink
You don't know what that means
Because a kitchen sink to you
Is not a kitchen sink to me, okay, friend?
Are you searching for purpose?
Then write something, yeah it might be worthless
Then paint something then, it might be wordless
Pointless curses, nonsense verses
You'll see purpose start to surface
No one else is dealing with your demons
Meaning maybe defeating them
Could be the beginning of your meaning, friend
-Twenty One pilots

What they're trying to say, is that, when you feel that life has no purpose, and aren't living for anything anymore, then make something, weather it be, a poem, a song, a painting, or anything. As long as it matters to you, and you know what it means, then you have purpose, because if you die, then who else is gonna know what it means to you?

How frustrating
And so degrading
This time were wasting
It's like were blind to the life were hating
So much for life
I might need a knife
Because sometimes in order to live
You have to **** your mind.

Hello
We haven't talked in quite some time
I know
I haven't been the best
Of sons, hello, I've been traveling in the desert of my mind
And I
Haven't found a drop
Of life
I haven't found a drop
Of you, I haven't found a drop
I haven't found a drop
Of water
Water
I try desperately to run through the sand
As I hold the water in the palm of my hand
'Cause it's all that I have and it's all that I need and
The waves of the water mean nothing to me
But I try my best and all that I can
To hold tightly onto what's left in my hand
But no matter how, how tightly I will strain
The sand will slow me down and the water will drain
I'm just being dramatic, in fact, I'm only at it again
As an addict with a pen, who's addicted to the wind
As it blows me back and forth, mindless, spineless, and pretend
Of course I'll be here again, see you tomorrow, but it's the end of today
End of my ways as a walking denial
My trial was filed as a crazy suicidal head case
But you specialize in dying, you hear me screaming "father"
And I'm lying here just crying, so wash me with your water
Water
Hello
I haven't talked in quite some time
I know
I haven't been the best
Of sons, hello, I've been traveling in the desert of my mind
And I
I haven't found a drop
Of life
I haven't found a drop
Of you
I haven't found a drop
I haven't found a drop
Of water

Songwriters: Joseph Tyler Harris
Addict with a Pen lyrics © Warner/Chappell Music, Inc

Thank you Twenty One Pilots for all you've done for the broken people.
You've cured some of the ones who have tried their suicidal session.
You've shown us that you know what it feels like to suffer.
You've told us that the hardest nights will get brighter when the sun comes up, and we can try again.
You've been a friend when we've needed one the most.
You've described the destructive thoughts as metaphors that we can find hope from.
You've combined ukulele music with screamo and made it art.
You've given us lyrics to find the motivation to keep going.
You've told us to stay alive, so that's what we do.
Stay alive |-/

i wonder if it’d be cold against my neck
or if it’d be hot, or if i’d have to heat it just to be sure.
i wonder if it’d be as comfortable as sleeping,
but nothing’s as comfortable as sleeping:
as dreaming, as breathing, as thinking of being—
as being nonliving and no longer breathing.
so i doubt i’ll ever hang myself because to be fair,
the dead can breathe no air.

You are as unclear as lake water,
at the same time so potable.
Like a vivid night sky,
filled with light pollution
from all the city lights.

Uncovered like the people
in renaissance paintings.
Camouflaged in the great open,
A chameleon in all colors.
Hidden like the new moon.

Present but never there to be seen.
Stated as existent, but bares in darkness.