Monday, 13 February 2017

A Brief Description of Depression: Wooden Wheel

Ring o' ring o' roses... Ring o' ring o' roses...
Ring o' ring o' roses...
Ring o' ring o' roses...

It's dark behind the lids. The clouds are blacker than night and they stick like tar melted to the eyeballs. The brain is numb and the tears blotch the skin and every day they sit on the chest and whisper and snarl, and laugh and sneer. And they bounce and jump and flop and loll. They wear dark grey suits and never walk alone. Instead they catch a ride on the first poor soul who stops, who only too late understands the ignorance and apathy of the others as they choke from the dangling bodies now swinging around the neck.

The definition of maybe is never. Weight and daggered tongues press against the skin and flesh and bones, and the saliva eats through all like acid. Decrepit and insane, the feast is only just beginning as the chains close around tendons and wood and the cries are choked and strained and ignored. And the spinning...

Ring o' ring o' roses...
Ring o' ring o' roses...
Ring o' ring o' roses...
Ring o' ring o' roses...

The wheel never stops; it just keeps turning, and turning, and turning... The angle of the spine is excruciating and the shoulder blades dig into the hard wood; bone dowels mated to the circumference, and the hot sweated glue locks it air tight. The carvings deepen with each turn; the dancing of fire illuminates the crazed red eyes and the skin melted off to reveal the bloody flesh and the wide maw opens and closes as shrieks of psychotic joy leave through its teeth.

The axle screeches its miserable tune as the cackling continues...

The fog is thick and the hands are cold as they close around both wrists and slam them into the hard dirt. A crash and a shriek are drowned by the roars of monstrous laughter and the cracking of ribs as the weight increases and blood rushes out in streams of ruby wonder.

Its heat soon dissipates; as do the memories of good times in which smiles were wide and pearls glistened in the golden rays of the sun. As do the hopes and pleas and the nails that bite into the wood and splinter, and the limbs that struggle and strain and fight, and the tears that glistened and fell and the thoughts of conquer and prevalence. All of them: gone.

The dark darkens and the light ceases to have ever had a meaning.





Source: Kevin Casper

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