What They Used to Bring
Easl faces the wall in front of him. Shadows creep across it, the room painted in their cast. The nightstand holds the choices of the day , a pen resting on paper, both sitting on a dusty book he hasn't opened in weeks.
He is packed into the blanket, laying upright. The room needs to be cleaned. Dishes sit on the floor. He knows this. He doesn't move.
Souvenirs of the past sit timeless.
The cost of sanity, to reminisce.
Memories lie. Mirrors corrupt.
A hum echoes, from where, he isn't sure. He gets up instantly, hands flat at his sides.
"Breathe…. keep breathing."
The mistakes come and go like that. A voice surfaces, his own. Whether it's guilt or simply the need to hear something human, he isn't sure. The flat is quiet most of the time. Footsteps from above, once in a while. Otherwise, pin drop silence.
Photo by Dima Pechurin on Unsplash
The door is cracked slightly. He looks at it, slouched against the headboard. A beam of hallway light.
He looks at the dishes. Back at the door.
He reclines, and tilts toward the door side.
Sleep comes without announcement.
The kind that doesn't feel like rest, more like a door closing.
The body begs. The mind negotiates.
Sedation as the dusk settles.
A slight tap on the shoulder. His eyes open to a fresh darkness. The same door, still ajar.
He is late to realize the disturbance. He jolts, the blanket up in the air. Such agility at this age.
He peers around, looking for something unusual.
The nightstand. Same pen. Same paper lying on the dusty little book.
Just as he takes a fresh breath, he sees it, a packet of medicine.
He stares at it.
It wasn't there before.
Or was it.
He sits stunned, finding it difficult to process. It sits too deliberately. Placed, not dropped.
The door in front of him, did someone enter.
Who would know to place it there.
But this specific medicine. Someone with knowledge of the disorder of this room. The prescription too precise.
The medicine he stopped taking.
Tears rush through his eyes. Sobs, heavy.
The medicine he used to ignore, but his parents used to bring.
He looks at the dishes that lay on the floor. He stands up and picks them up.
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I'm impressed. There are many texts about depression, including some by me. They are all somehow... from the outside. I have never tried to take the perspective of someone affected... Pretty awesome.
You mean that the words define the state rather than the actions. I don't get it totally.
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I mean rather that condition and actions are inseparable. That is precisely what defines depression. Those who can act independently of their condition have a healthy foundation. Where inner paralysis is felt, there is no longer any question of “healthy.” I consider it extremely difficult to portray this.
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Oh, I get it now. I have tried many times to articulate the feeling of stuck in a place, or the depravity of desire. But whenever I do it, feels to me as bloated in case of writing. I try to focus on the aspects other than internal monologue. So any person can get out of it, what they want. I don't like the endings at all. So as I get to them, they get rushed.
Poems are good in this regard, you can dish out without the need to provide an ending.
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@wakeupkitty
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@wakeupkitty
I felt like I was standing in that room with him or that I was him. You brought the claustrophobic experience to life with your writing