pushing back the edges of depression – it’s a quick-sand of insanity and I want to scream out “no!” but quickly the sand fills my mouth and I am drawn down into a deep and genuine paralysis of ennui. a thought is not an instinct.
blind. finding my level like water that creeps up to my nostrils in the night when there’s nobody watching. my other senses are heightened but not high enough for me to climb out of here. a thought is not an instinct.
the angry cello of depression strikes a chord in my gut like a cat climbing the curtains of a burning ship while the orchestra keeps on playing, keeps on playing; the angry cello keeps on playing. a thought is not an instinct.
howl. till I’m tearing up photographs and dancing with the moon. crippled kittens and limp spirits join in wanting excess and everything that goes with it so I lite up a cigarette to shut out the rain. a thought is not an instinct.
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