Some Days…

I had fallen through a trapdoor of depression. Walking blindly through the corridors of my feelings not seeing the cracks beneath my feet, leading me to fall inevitably into my bed. My sheets are made of sandpaper. The more I toss and turn in my thoughts the worse my bruises and skin become. Raw and red from the battle of the bastards in a space that should be sacred, yet where my pillow should be just lays a rock. Marrying the two feelings of what I think I feel, and who I am. Constantly tearing apart my brain as if I were Clark Kent morphing into the Man of Steel, yet my thoughts are actually my kryptonite. It’s having a 3 day hangover when you’ve never had a drop to drink. Head pounding, stomach churning, constantly falling back asleep in hopes when you wake up you feel normal again. But what is normal? Is this normal to feel like you’re always walking into a brick wall with no bridge to cross? Depression is living in a body that fights to survive with a mind that tries to die. But the worst thing isn’t feeling horrible, it’s to feel nothing at all.
The Silly Free Spirit

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