The Best When Depressed

Although this sentence is being read seamlessly by your eyes right now, the time it took for me to put it together was frustratingly long. No, I’m not a slow typer but I’m at a place in my life where I can’t seem to write; more accurately, I can’t seem to finish any piece that I start. Call it writer’s block if you will but I think there’s more to it. So after countless unfinished sentences I’ve decided to force myself to write about something. Anything. Take it back to elementary school, you know? Book report style.

I read an article recently about a theory surrounding depression and how it may not be an illness. In fact, the author, who’s name I can’t recall anymore, stated that he actually would categorize depression as a skill for survival; a tool for evolution. He goes on to say that when someone is depressed, they dwell on their problems. They analyze it. The focus alone will eventually lead to ways of resolving the problem. Which makes sense. I can definitely see a homeless man inventing something beneficial to society, like a cardboard waterproof vest as oppose to some rich spoiled Hollywood kid. Which would also explain how cave men invited fire and such. I can picture it now.

“Hey Larry, wanna go hunting?”

“No…”

“What is up with you man? Seems like you never want to do anything in the winter!”

“What is up with me? What is up with me!? I’ll tell you what the fuck is up with me, Travis! Unfortunately, I wasn’t born with chest hair like you! Which means that I get bad coughs every fucking time I go out hunting in the snow! And my teeth! Look at them! They aren’t as sharp as yours either so I don’t need to hunt! I can’t even chew that raw meat! I just pick these damn berries all day long! Which doesn’t do much for my ego and I just cry myself to sleep at night, which actually works out because thanks to the exhaustion from crying, the freezing nights can’t wake me!”

“What are those words you’re using. foock-ing? What is that?”

“Fucking? I don’t know man. I’m so angry lately and that sound seems to help. Nothing else does.”

“Wow, that’s depressing.”

“Yeah…I’ve been thinking about it a lot. We need to invent fire, sweaters and cough syrup.”

“Ok man….Hey, on another note, can you help me write a poem about how I’m feeling. Lately, I haven’t been able to write anything. And you’ve got like a whole novel over there on your wall. Love the stick figure that’s stabbing himself, by the way.”

“Thanks. It’s because you’re happy Travis. She was a good catch.”

“Who? That bear I killed the other day?”

“No, your new girlfriend.”

“Yeah, we are definitely not fucking.”

“….doesn’t sound as good in that context for some reason.”

“Yeah, true. We’ll work on that one.”

Oh Life, Tell Me a Story

Oh Life,
Tell me a story
But please don’t bore me
And spare me
The carries
Of noble allegories
They do nothing for me
At the moment
Most potent
Are the damaged
And the broken
For I’m older
Colder
And for the most part, outspoken
Yet, accepting
exceptions
To even sounds so deafening
For these stains
Are still gains
No matter where we step in
Cause intentions justify
The inventions of white lies
And grey paints rapid
Whether in t-shirts or business ties
And love
Oh love
Will drive our souls
But intention is
The weapon,
Has a stronger hold
So this story
These tears
Need understanding
Real near
So hand written
Or typed
Tell me a story
Oh life.