The First Visit
POETRY: Depression's Narrative
When the gates first opened, I recall waking up from my slumber into an awakening of darkness. It was a murky darkness where her doubts swim in a pool of confusion like fish swimming around in a pond. When she began to swim in the pools of ignorance, questions rose, igniting flames of discussion but never being able to get as close to answer.
Questioning why going to sleep in the morning is so difficult?
Why opening and closing her eyes is so difficult?
Why hauling herself out of bed is so difficult?
Why telling the truth is so difficult?
Why eating three meals a day is so difficult?
Why living in her and feeding off of her anxiety and confusion allows me to prosper?
The answers are unfound. Instead, they leave a trail of dirt behind them, dark enough to keep it hidden from the outside but light enough to acknowledge its existence. I wish I could explain why I do not stop with the bronze, but I cannot. I can only tell you why the color of her fingertips when she keeps them in a bucket of ice for so long is the same color of the paint that smears itself on the walls of her cerebrum.
It is the sky on its way home from Hotel California, it is the wind saying “Hey there, Delilah” to the fair lady in London, and the sun wishing for this girl to Say Something before it leaves her to peace. When this is all over, the white, plush cotton field where she could cry and scream as loud as she wants will graze before her lifeless eyes and wish for me to let it alone.
She broke because the agonizing pain of being ripped apart each morning and put back together in the afternoon only to realize that her heart no longer fit together as it had in the past hurt her more than it hurt her mother making a mistake. A signal that she has been through too much, a signal loud and clear. Taking heed of the blaring noise, I settle down in the pit of her heart calmed by the periodic rhythm of her blood being pumped in and out. In…Out. In...Out. She imagined what it would be like for her blood to constantly pump out and out instead of in and out. That thought quickly vanished as I drifted off into a sleep nearly as good as me.
About the Creator
Amrutha Obulasetty
Hello fellow earthlings! My name is Amrutha. I am a HUGE rhetoric nerd and love to write prose and poetry. The best thing you can do to fit in is to be yourself.
You are WORTH IT!
Stay safe. Stay Strong. Stay Beautiful.
<3
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