November

I am having a bad time.

I try writing and I end up deleting it all.

I imagine myself saying it out loud and my skin crawls.

There is something with the dark that makes it impossible. I cannot get sunlight, not even moments of sunlight, not even moments of light.

I got home at four in the afternoon and made dinner. Got ready for the night. And there are hours left of the day.

I sleep too much.


I tried, sitting down at dinner, to follow along with my heart when it reached out and forward for something. When it searches for another time, to a future place, to something I will do or could do.

But my heart was flailing and I realised that it is not going to get better.

A doctor told me this week I was depressed, so I am looking for symptoms (is this depression?)

I suppose being unable to look forward to something is a sign of depression.

But it is also true. What could get better? What, in a single day, could be better than this? It is all up to my mood and my mood is such a slippery thing.

It does not matter if I change the house. If I live somewhere where I move differently. If I eat something else or see other people. It is still. Just. This.

Is this depression?

Or is it just facts? That, to an extent, it all comes down to my mood. (Is the world only my perception of it?)

There are hours left of the day, that I could use writing, but I just want to go to sleep. I imagine that I might need sleep. Sleep is always good, isn't it? I have to get up early tomorrow.

And tomorrow night will eat more of the day and then it won't be anything left and can't the night just eat me, too?

Is this depression? Being unable to organise the day to use the hours I am awake to write essays and not transform them into night hours (November helps me in this).

I am clearly doing something wrong. Something I ate made me this. Something I did not do. A book I read at the wrong time. A class missed, where everyone learned how to be human beings.

I don't believe I am depressed because that seems an awfully easy way to solve the meaninglessness of life.

Is that depression?

I don't have to tell anyone, honestly, and I can write it only to myself. And imagine that I tell you.

Nevertheless, it is not the easiest time. This November (and October and September and August). And I don't believe it can be any easier.