Depression

Some of these evenings, there is just too much brown around, almost like a dirty slush which is a composite of the shambles of conscience and an electric righteousness: a mixture of your bright white hope, and bleak disappointment and the sandy shades of your ennui mixed with the sunshiny bright laughter of your past and the golden shades of the promised future that looms on your horizon like very bright smily clouds that promise a cold, sterile, formica clean comfort...those evenings when you look into a mirror and try to sell the idea of smiling to yourself and all that stares back is your own ugly, flyblown, inconspicuous face which seems vaguely familiar-those eyes carry shades of something you trample on, everyday. You try to remember when you last saw green, when your feet last felt the sensation of walking on grass and not smoking it, when you actually ran through the golden reluctance of a field of ripe wheat, when you last stared sun in the face as it was sinking and your horizon was brighter and more alive than the coming night- when you met hope, and could promise yourself that she would be going home with you.

Look at yourself, what you were, are and will be; look at your bright future, and weep for what you do not even know you have lost.