A look into a writer’s depression part 2


A look into a writer’s depression – part 2

“Have you seen the flowers?” my mother asks.

A stupid question I would say. Flowers. They are my last problem right now.

“I have. They are pretty.” I lied.

She gives me an affectionate look and pats me on the shoulder. I wonder if she would still have that warm look on her face if she read the prose I’ve been writing lately. Pure sorrow. I have to get it out of my mind somehow though.

Life doesn’t make sense anymore, and I am trapped inside this hateful mind that causes me only problems. I am sick of it and I want it to be gone in an instant. But on some days I am grateful for it, because of what it created before all this nonsense started ruling my head.

Is this episode going to end anytime soon? Should I be worried? I found out I function normally even though I am in pain. I can still eat, drink, sleeping is the difficult part but everything else is just normal.


What is normal anyway? If you look up the term in the dictionary, it will most likely be ‘the standard or the common type; usual, regular’. But this word is too rigid. Almost too harsh. Ready to jump in your face and cut your throat the first chance it gets.

“You have to obey this sacred word or be in a certain way and you shall not break the rules!”. But what artist respects the rules?! Art cannot be limited by rules. It would be a calamity. Art is not politics or mathematics, it does not follow patterns. It transcends the human mind. The word “normal” simply can’t describe art. Because art is anything but normal. It is weird, it is ambiguous, it is chaotic, it is messy and a billion other things. That’s why it is art.

I look around at this landscape that I’ve seen every day of my life and the places I’ve known since I can remember; and it feels like I no longer fit in the picture. Everything is too colourful, and I am black and white. Even my white pages seem too coloured and the black ink appears too bright.

I ask the universe for sunshine and wind, leaving poetry as offerings but I get sombre mornings in return.


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