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The field...the breeze...you're just eating me away.
The Art of Depression
He sits and mouths out the words. He rocks back and forth, eyes watering even though he’s no reason to be sad. The phrases just pass right through him, taking little pieces of him with them. From the shackles of language and measurable time. And then we can trade places, play musical graves.
He picks emptily at the piece of paper in his hand. The music has ended now, playing a song that isn’t nearly as heart wrenching. Nothing is coming to mind. It’s all just…full of absurd thoughts. He is happy, but yet he sits there every night, his eyes filling to the brim, his head just…lost. His hands never work with the paper, like they do during some of the day.
He starts to think of how lonely he is, despite the amount of friends he has. He thinks of how he can never come up with the words to say to them. He thinks of how all he wants is to just lie in an empty field breezy, before a storm, with all the music of the world gasping into his heart.
Then he breathes. He remembers that he’s alright. There’s nothing wrong with him, why should he be so upset?
He can’t help but think of that field. The field of his dreams, the field where he dies. He’s not blubbering. He’s just truly sad.
But it’ll pass.
It always does.