There where my Pen Staggers

~A take on depression~

I can't write. No, I can't. It is there where my pen staggers. My pen. My trusting friend. Truest and beloved. He that never failed me. Never failed my heart. Staggers here. He pauses, confused. At the tumult. He, that has translated worlds unheard of, from within the depths of my mind, stammers here.

Is it a void that sucks in all the color and clamor from the world outside? My pen, that had advanced onto the paper, stops and looks up questioningly. Or is it a gray bubble that holds you within, sealing you air-tight from the nice world outside. Frail and floating, sluggish and slippery, with nothing to hold on to? No. I don't think so. One can still let the colors blind him. He can still belong and feel snug as a cat on her favorite couch, when outside, yet somehow feel alien. Not any of this fancy void or bubble business. My pen frowns, radiating keen disappointment. Two very strong imageries to be put down on paper. But a comprehensive imagery does not promise reality. Realities extend beyond a good imagery. Then what is it? The nib starts glowering. 

A little train that runs at the back of your mind, letting puffs of negative thoughts. Chugging insistently on all that went wrong and continues to go wrong. How things could have been different and dealt with differently. The paths you did not take, the choices you might have made, the people you could have saved, the things you could have done and did not do. All of them crowding in, pointing and staring. Puncturing slightly at first then gliding cruelly into the environment that you call reality. Tearing at the fabric you have so neatly stitched between your worlds-the inside and out. Toppling all equilibrium and sense of logic. Lugging in a sense of insecurity that insists upon raising your walls, building them stronger. So that, this incomprehensible madness, whatever you call it stays controlled and concealed. Save the trouble of explaining something that even you don't get to others- my pen is leaking ink, bawling into the paper at this point. He is overwhelmed and has failed at organization. His pride just shattered.

A glass on the edge of a rickety table. On the very edge. Looking exuberant in the sunshine that floods in through the open window standing tall against the plush, warm spring breeze that blows in. As another might have, it does not enjoy the breeze. Reality is a cruel affair. Warm as the winds might be, that does not placate it. One swift hike in velocity, one wriggle in the wrong direction might be the end. Sweating and suffering. Not noting safety lies in stepping back or calling out-one stride, one word. Engrossed in the peril beneath, it does not. Is this it? My pen looks up, a stray droplet of ink, running down its sleek body, his nib shining with hope. No. A feeling of inadequacy creeps. I crumble the sheet and toss it into the bin. It bounces off its sisters and falls to the floor. 

Is it complicated? No. Is it Vague? No.  Is it taxing? Yes. But not in a literary sense. It is hard to put a lid on it. Isn't it? To put it within words, polished and set on a fancy platter, so the audience could feast on it. The grime and guilt ground smooth that they look literally pleasing. Encased in metaphors, entombing the emotions. Isn't what we are taught to do. Nothing is ugly. There is sunshine after every night. Isn't that what we say, not acknowledging that the person is blind? Positivism is fine so long negativity is recognized for its rawness and intensity. Not one person that truly suffers today can go out and come clean with his feelings. It is not for the fear of being judged or labeled, as the popular belief goes. It is because of not knowing. Inability to comprehend the strangeness of all that is happening within. Within that is surreal and swirling. Or at times still and silent- eerily so.

So shall it be, I am forced to resign with a sigh. A blank paper and a stammering quill. What conveys complexity better than a blank sheet. In this case, where every person deals with his/her own reality, a blank sheet is a faithful symbol. Sensible and open. All that remains is for it to be acknowledged. Tough as it might be in a world used to putting issues into equations and paragraphs, this is essential. Perhaps, this is the way it is meant to be. So be it, then. So be it.