Our eyes tell our stories. Mine red and raw, lazy lids that won’t quite open and linger in blinks. I am confused with the faces that blur by on my adventures outside, the places I go to connect briefly and cauterize isolation, bring life into dead limbs. The sensation numbed and now it gnaws at my insides, I am curious of these wounds and how they make me stumble and drain the blood from my lips. I am evaporating in the supermarket and landing on the jeweled skin of strangers, forgetting the automatic functions like breathing and I wonder if I have died already and become a figment. I bit a lemon yesterday for the sour suction that pouted my mouth and woke up some form of interest, food is bitter or sweet and I crave the spectrum. I wonder why my smile shakes, just the corners and then the full form falls, collapsing into a final twitch. I started to give it out sparingly, just the genuine old couple in line get the real thing and I never used to care about these things. Yet I know, in the title I have been told that I am facing depression, and it brings a picture to mind of deflation. Contraction of space until only a point remains and I am standing still, movement no longer an option. I watch myself, in this poignant position. So rich in discrepancy of spirit. What I am to what I have allowed. My eyes soak up the experience and I wonder if I should see someone about the fuzzy edges of every picture and how it’s better when I turn off the lights and sit with this. My story is dark right now filled with the unpleasant hauntings of my own mind. Yet I am here, still here and that’s good enough for now.