Today, the same.
The day, the same.
After, the same.
Next, the same.
Just the same, no change, alive but not caring if so, not that I want to…not be. The black dog chasing me, chasing after me, after me, me. A night out with friends, where I have nothing to say and all that escapes my mouth, snagged on barbed wire, is all to reflect upon the inadequacies of my own inferiority. How all said is boring, is hateful, is to be despised, all me. How all makes me call myself, again and again, over and over, continuously, outloud and inloud, ext and int, dexter and sinister, “you cunt”. Why all makes me different, sets me apart and not a part, makes me less, why it is all me who does it.
Why cannot I stop talking, put a cap on it, swallow it instead of spitting it out all over myself, over everyone, over anyone. Why cannot I talk like them, like others, like those, silky and smooth, rose water to minds, funny and interesting, conversation unstilted.
Thus my black dog, Fenrir, drags me down by it’s teeth, pulling and tugging, fighting every effort to try for the light, for the air, it’s grasp tight and unforgiving, mocking in it’s blood red eyes and snarled smile, it’s growled, mocking laugh. My depression has a name, and that name is Fenrir.