Depression is not all about the blacks and the darks. Not confined within the cuts of open wrists or the popping of tranquilizers.
It is being surrounded by plethora of colours. It’s the empty willingness to catch them in your fists and see them radiate through your skin.
It’s the fight against each cell of your body to open the clenched palms. It’s the half-hearted struggle to empty them out and fill them with hope, assurance and peace.
Struggling. Fighting. Stumbling.
You hold your hands out only to have them barren once again.
As your hands, slowly, droop by your sides. You look around to see everyone, effortlessly, embraced in hues of love, life and luck.
In that moment, every ounce of will is burnt and heart is once again filled with ashes of charred desires and dreams.
Depression is the battle against one’s own self to survive. The fight to keep breathing even though all you get to inhale is poisonous and polluted air.
(But, my depressed soul, don’t you worry, one day a phoenix of hope and faith shall rise from the ashes within.)