#angony
I hate when you talk about depression
"I use to have you know " You say with this ridiculous pride
hiding in your tone.
I bite my tounge. Soon I will either break you ore just
break everything around me.
It hurts . No it angers me.
Depression is a life sentence
it´s not like the flue nor can you "cure" it.
You cannot have depression for two months
and one day wake up from it.
You cannot cure depression with a cup of coffee.
Ore a few "positive songs".
Depression is born
the day you feel that first wave of pain.
That moment when you suddenly
dont feel there is room for you in this world.
Depression is the illness that
you deny your whole entire life.
Because you cannot afford one single
moment of utter sadness.
You never dwell in your agony
you simply hide it.
You go forward despite being pushed back.
There are people who are in denial
about their depression.
Because their either to brave ore
to afriad to acknowledge that
they are HURT.
And filled with misery
despite being full
you get that ******* free refill
every ******* day.
Depression is not a mood.
Its being locked inside
with your demons.
It´s being left alone
with your abusive thoughts.
So dont talk to me
about depression
Nov 4, 2015
Nov 4, 2015 at 5:09 PM UTC
Sometimes the dark side of the room becomes irresistible. Before you notice, you're already there, craving solitude, wrapped in a silence so loud it feels like comfort. Darkness makes you feel safe now. You know you shouldn’t surrender to something so faint, so shapeless, yet it pulls you in all the same.
There is a feeling without a name that leans close and whispers that this is allowed—that this is how you're meant to feel. The melancholy that fills your sensitive soul tells you it is unique, almost sacred. It makes you feel special. Understood. Chosen, in a way no one else has chosen you.
To know that only you understand yourself is both relieving and mortifying.
Maybe it is better this way. When words escape your tight throat, they twist and fracture, bruised by the weight of what you carry. You think about letting it out, about turning the ache into language, but it never feels right. No one would understand anyway. The ones who might have were swallowed by this same need to be useful, to create something—to feel something.
All that remains are the songs they left behind—sincere, raw, scribbled on sheets of terrible poetry. You reach something close to peace only when you ask yourself when you will be brave enough to put an end to this mediocre life.
Your mind devours itself, and you throw up art—if it can be called that—because it is the only thing that keeps you breathing. Creation stitches your fragile soul together, even if only for a moment. At least this melancholy is gentle with you, unlike the looks and words you endure when you must face the filthy reality of the world you inhabit.
You drown yourself in anything that echoes the loud silence in your chest. You pretend you don’t miss the people who hurt you, but the truth lingers: you wanted connection. Still do. Maybe you just want the peace that comes from its absence, too. You feel an sense of justice when things don't end up well for you deep down.
At the end of the day, you're only human—terrified of living, yet quietly mourning a death you can't reach… not while you continue being a coward.
Feb 20
Feb 20, 2026 at 7:54 AM UTC