Reading through some of my old entries, I feel I've lost the ability to write.I used to be such a good writer. I used to be worth reading. Where did it go?
I was trying to find words to explain depression to someone who does not know, who tells me to fight, but the words slip away from me and all I'm left with is the mediocre crap that expresses nothing of what goes on inside.
How can I tell you what goes on inside?
And why do I have this craving for you to understand?
It is being curled on the ledge of a cliff where you've lived for twenty years, fingernails worn to a stump, fingertips crusted from years of bleeding as you try and try and try to scale the impossible wall. And twenty years on people are still telling you to fight, to climb, when so many times you've gotten half way up only to fall back down again, and they can't understand why you want to drop off the abyss and give up the struggle?
Fight, they say, as if this is a new idea you haven't yet tried.
I haven't done justice to my thoughts.
It's only late at night, waiting to fall asleep, that the words come. Then, I compose magnificent entries in my mind, words that vanish with the grey light of the morning.
I used to wish for a dream recorder, something I could plug in to at night and relive my dreams again in the day. I wish it were a thought recorder now, for capturing those fleeting drifting moments of lucidity and poetry that only exist on the edge of consciousness and the verge of sleep.
