Static
Depression is not a tidy string of letters,
it is not this, not darkness, not sadness,
neither an emotion nor a poem, nothing
as easy as pain, nor the idea: 'melancholia'...
it is neither a sapphire nor a raven's quill,
nothing tangible,
nothing as perfect as a teardrop.
It is a lack, a deep and profound failure, to actualize
the beauty of existence into otherness,
into something,
into love.
I have no more love to give.
I retreat into non-doing.
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