The Cloud
You know, the one that's wrapped around my head.
It's smelling the fragrance of cooking
Only to be unable to taste it.
I can see the onions cooking, see the garlic
Browning around the edges
But the oil splatters against dead skin.
The food, perfectly prepared and warm,
Is cold on my tongue and tasteless.
.
I can see the ripples of the sunset,
The slight difference between bright and dark
But there is a filter over my eyes
And it is all shades of grey.
I can run my hands through silken hair
And the sensation is stolen
By an invisible neuropathy of the mind.
.
The breeze blows against my face
But I smell the rain.
I smell the storm and the lightning
And miss the sun-drenched air
Floating like butterfly wings over my face.
When I see the butterfly,
I see its death.
The inevitable release of something I loved.
__________________________________
I'm always at a bit of a loss when it comes to people not understanding depression and what it can be like especially at a high-functioning level. People understand being sad, generally. They understand grief, most of the time. But depression is something different. And I tend to think that people can't understand unless there is explanation and that art in any form is a fundamental human form of explanation.
All that to say, this is a weak stab at describing just the barest slice of depression.
About the Creator
Silver Serpent Books
Writer. Interested in all the rocks people have forgotten to turn over. There are whole worlds under there, you know. Dark ones too, even better.
Comments (3)
Beautifully captured something intangible and real.
Depression is less about the big things, and more a muting of the small joys that keep our happiness ship afloat. I think you did a great job representing that!
I've been diagnosed with depression long ago with your poem resonated so deeply with me. You captured it perfectly!