The Song

It’s pressing down on me like a ton of bricks. The feeling just won’t go away. In my desperation, I try to find any form of salvation. Wherever I turn, I am met with blank stares. It seems like even those around me are in the same quagmire.

The depression comes to me in the morning. It waits patiently for me to wake up; it does not come banging on doors or pouring ice-cold water all over me. It knows that I will eventually wake up and take it up. Whenever I wake up, I know in my heart of hearts that it is there, grinning devilishly. My suffering turns it on.

Whatever is left of my sanity is on the run. It seems that it took one look at this menace and ran. My sanity has deserted me and I have been left floating; a boat without ballast. I feel like Comrade Rubashov, just before the goon behind him pulls the trigger.

All the hopelessness in the world cannot compare to this hell. When I look in that corner, I see the green monster licking its lips. I know that it is probably humming some devil song to itself. Some eerie tune composed in the pits of hell.

Two months I’ve struggled with the secret. Two gruelling months I have exhausted the prayer bank. I have turned to every known deity have followed every scrap of advice from well meaning friends. I have no more breath to waste on arguments about potency.

Now I know what I have to do. The great bard said ‘to live is to suffer’. No one wants to suffer. I for one do not want to suffer. This guitar in my hands is the epitome of beauty. It has the perfect craftsmanship of Apollo. Apollo because its form is music. Just running my hand over it strums the cords of my heart and I cannot help but sing. I sing for the moment. I sing for the times I have yearned for warm arms around me yet I knew I couldn’t achieve that.

Tomorrow, I will be in Utopia. I will be free from all the pains of this world. Today I strum my guitar a lot better than Eric Clapton and Carlos Santana…