What I want to say, I still cannot recall. These beautiful words I was ready to spend, bleed away faster than I can get here to type.
This fog in my mind isn’t all too unfamiliar. Often I am pressed to decide, happiness or ingenious? Never can the two coincide it would seem. Even for all the unfiltered posts in the past full of errors and typos, I still can remember the beauty I had that produced those thoughts.
And now. Now I sit here riding my medication buzz, hoping to break free from the fog.
No. That’s not right.
I’m hoping to write my current ideas, the ones that plague me.
Even in this blurred state of affairs, my depression hunts me well. I was doing relatively phenomenal given the course and context of things. Maybe it’s attention I need. Or just I’m so accustomed to bitching about things. Whatever it is, it sits heavy, and I know not the release.
There was a time, full of ignorance I was, that I believed in the great things a person could do. Adulthood often means dispelling that, shedding off that cloak of ignorance and panning the phrase innocence, lest we lose our edge.
I miss innocence. Anyone who says they don’t, is a liar. Anyone who dedicates to clinging to it, is troubled. Enter me.
I’m in a strange place right now. I have one last story to tell to the item of my affection. She’s far from an item, but her heart shall never belong to me, and I would do well to remember that. Something marvelous, that lass…
Still, I have one more story to share with her. She knows all of my dark things, and she just shrugged them off, makes it hard to move on, even when one knows, it’s the best course for all. This story is a different type. It’s not the story of who I am. It’s the story of who I can be, who I was, and the gradient she already possesses the knowledge of. It is not a story I will reveal on here. It is not a story I will relay with the allowance of my fingers dancing to a strange rhythm. It is one I must speak of in person, though distant that event may be.
Though I am tempted to catalog why she is so marvelous, it would do me no good. She is aware of this public journal of sorts, though I doubt she will read this of her own volition. If she should read this, she should know that I will move on in good time, though, it will be a greatly laborious effort.
But, I digress for all that I can.
My purpose is not so clearly defined, though I know its origin lies with me.
Some people tell me to write and publish something. Some day, maybe, when I’ve achieved stable happiness. But, by then my writing will be left aside. Both upsetting and relieving a thought like that can be.
Some people point to my obelisk of achievement from high school and say, you did greater things than most. And I will nod and agree, but it matters not when I’m unable to finish a college education, NOT for lack of academic talent I might add.
Some people suggest God is the way. God and me got an understanding I think. I know he’s there, and I pray semi-regularly, but he’s not going to be my direct line to happy.
Some people (the smart ones) tell me that I’m looking for excuses to stay miserable. Now, that’s a bingo, please come to the front to collect your winnings ma’am.
I’m here. That’s not changing. I’m not planning to die. And best of all, suicidal ideas are at an all time distance for me. Still, I mope and am unable to collect myself, but I see improvement, which in turn generates little diminutive bits of hope. Forcibly reminding myself a depressive episode that contains these thoughts is remarkably better than the past ones, in turn generates a little more.
My brain, trudging through this fog, producing less beautiful objects, offers a structured factory of hope. And I cling to it. Even if some of the things it has paired itself with are toxic. I accept it, and must abstain from true despair, even in my most lonely of days.
My purpose? To be happy. Isn’t that just enough?