The Monstrosity That Is Hope

How to give words to nearly uninterrupted depressive thoughts and feelings in a way that remains fresh and interesting? That is, if its poison can be called interesting at all. I feel like little is changing: it is just unremitting depression, infecting my every thought, that basically feels like nothingness blended with disgust. It is listlessness sprinkled with despair. It is a cake that saps the life out of you with every bite you take.

Nothing changes, and yet everything gets worse, all the time. And then life confuses you when you suddenly have a fun night with friends, and everything seems alright for just a little while, but when they leave or you go home you step into the awful pit trap you have climbed out of numerous times before, and still you keep fooling yourself into believing there is no trap, and that when things are good they could actually stay that way.

It is this hope that keeps flickering like a dying candle that hits the hardest, lifting you up and slamming you into the ground, first making you think that perhaps there is a way out after all, that just maybe the bleak outlook has been an illusion, and if you shake your head vehemently things will fall into place. But then you sit down and the depression drops onto your aching shoulders once again, mocking you with its enormous weight, and right before the tears come and blur your vision you clearly see the hourglass in front of you, every grain that drops down booming like a hammer from hell, and as you grind your teeth you know that once more you fell for the age-old ploy—and will again and again.

It is at this moment that the kitchen knife seems to glimmer in the distance, beckoning you to use it in the most horrible of ways and end the terrible rise and fall of hope once and for all.