The More I Read

The more I read, the less I believe I can ever be a writer.  What happened to my imagination?  My originality?  The arsenal of words I had to change the world?  Have they leaked out over time?  Did I lose them the way I lost my sanity so many times, piece by peace.  Did I drink them away, like my brain cells?  

Maybe, I’m having a mid-life crisis.  But, I’m pretty sure I already did.  In my thirties.  Which gives me a little over ten years left to live.  You would think that would spur me toward new horizons, or at least old comforts, knowing I have a decade or less to enjoy air flowing through my lungs.  The vibration of my beating heart.

But I’ve been fighting the quicksand of depression for over a year now.  Ever since I left my last full time job.  And I’ve tried to stop sinking so many times.  The longest reprieve has been four or five days.  Not enough to get my life back on track.

And now I’m here watching death claim a life.  Minute over hour over day over week.  But it’s not new, just harder to watch.  I’ve been watching death claim me my entire life, save the years I delighted in my young children so much I stopped watching, and enjoyed my life.

Maybe I can get back to that.  I just have to bash this depression over the head with joy, right?

(I know, I probably just need to see a therapist).