[I did not draw this. It was drawn by artisawindowwasher.]
I am most certainly what most people would consider to be depressed. That is, I have a deep conflict within me. A sense that there is an existence that is more meaningful and productive than what is advertised, which is pushing against the reality of daily life.
I would not consider myself to be unhappy, or to be under the clutches of some unalterable condition, but that I recognize my own worth — a fact that makes me feel crushed under the immense weight of responsibility.
My emotional difficulties stem from the idea that I have more to offer this world than the average person. A realization that has come to me not of my own image of grandeur, but from the echos of those surrounding me — from a thousand praises of my radiant and beautiful potential. From being told a thousand times that I am failing myself, and this imperfect world.
My depression comes from being able to understand the beauty in everything I see, which alternately shows me the depravity of the way things are. One cannot see the darkness without first knowing the light, so they say. But I am left feeling that there is more darkness than light if I am somehow special because I posses the ability to think for myself.
There is nothing special about me. I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together. I do not want this label. I do not want this responsibility for success. At times, I do not want this kind of insight.
If ignorance is bliss, what is knowledge?
Why even try to understand this life if all we get is confusion and broken hearts?
This is so far away from everything I’ve wanted to say.
Everything is beautiful and empty.