impatient depressive states

what is love, baby—because I don't know.

Oh, hi there.

Yea, it’s been a HOT minute and I wish I could say I have an excuse as to why I couldn’t open a laptop in the comfort of my own home, coffee shop, and various other local hidey holes. Alas, I don’t.

I haven’t known what to say. I haven’t known what to do. And, honestly, the only lesson I’ve gathered from my departure both to NYC and from internet spaces is that I am undeniably and annoyingly impatient.

Let me explain.

I have achieved something really cool. I went and put up a whole show in THE purported city, and while I don’t necessarily agree that one has to go to NYC to achieve something great…it doesn’t hurt. It’s a gold star on the resume, it feels good.

Do I feel good? No.

But everyone else seems to feel good about it for me. My friends are pretty awesome. And, for that, I can’t thank them enough. But I’d have to see them to do that.

And I haven’t really seen anyone of late.

Whenever I feel empty, entirely bored of my own existence. When I am passed the point of an existential crisis, beyond feelings of nihilism, I only wish to land directly on a launch pad to jettison my shell immediately into space. Hoping that I take down a Musk “patent” ship/satellite/vehicle—whatever. I don’t know what he fakes he owns, or has made anymore. That would at least be useful.

So, is it boredom? Maybe. But then I’d be bored of what…myself?

Neat.

Previously in “catching the cars we chase” which you don’t have to read necessarily, it just tells you that I have the space available to me for ALLL of my creativity to start to flourish. And yet, I can’t allow it.

I have made little progress since then. And I am tired of being tired of that lack of progress. I’m in full surrender at this point. Because, I suppose, if there is anything I have learned about my impatient, pivoting, people pleasing self, it is that I have never sat in the muck for much longer than it takes me to take a small *puff* and rearrange my entire life to fit the current expectation.

So. Here is my muddiest self available to you all, and all that will read this. I have no idea what’s happening. I don’t know what I want. I don’t know what I’m supposed to “do.”

But here is me trying.

And here is what I think depression feels like:

Depression does not feel like drowning. It feels like floating.

A buoy at sea. Bouncing as it may, surviving each and every wave, but only that. Endurance. Choking at times, but serene at others. One lives in the between of that, of the horizon and the depths of one’s soul. The existence of not existing. To swim in it, is to face it. To face the ocean of issues. To choose between the tide and the current is to choose life. At times, you may choose to be above it. To remain flying in the air that sits the heavens of your mind into reality. To escape it. The ecstasy of forgetfulness. The permission to exist. To simply be. 

To flock, or drown, is the phrase. To ignore or contend with…what ever it may be. However, to float is to mourn and freeze. The disposition of a meeker heart that cannot stand to raise itself up again. It is disabled. It is offline. Only just breaking through the surface. 

What use is a flame to acid in the veins. What use is grounding when the Earth no longer exists. What use is air when you can no longer breathe. Just there, above the surface, at a stasis for fear of losing control. Floating. Passive to the above and below. 

Focus 
waning,

slipping. 

Dying
 to move on
 when one cannot. 

Stuck
	like cream on top.