despair You'll try, harder and harder, to make yourself happy. Yet food will have no taste, touch will have no sensation, there will be no warmth or any sort of feeling. The only feeling that seems real is hate. Everything. You. If you try hard enough, the despair will all turn to anger. You get angry at every failed remedy, and everything else. But mostly, you won't feel anything. And the worst is the lack of direction. As though if you just knew the way out, you could grope your way in that direction through the dark. But instead, you just sit. You're doing something that should make you happy. You're tired. Your body sags all around you. It's as though you're not even alive. "Depressive realism is the proposition that people with depression have a more accurate view of reality." -Wikipedia "We are no longer the same, you wiser but not sadder, and I sadder but not wiser, for wiser I could hardly become without grave personal inconvenience, whereas sorrow is a thing you can keep adding to all your life long, is it not, like a stamp or an egg collection, without feeling very much the worse for it, is it not." - Samuel Beckett "ignorance more frequently begets confidence than does knowledge" -Charles Darwin Eventually, you give up. In letting go you free yourself to truly despair. In despair you embrace the only feelings that have been real to you. Your hate, turned inward, becomes something more, and compounds itself. You fall. You move down into the earth. You despair, and yet, as soon as it is acknowledged, truly known and truly believed, it becomes ridiculous. You smile. You laugh. You think, 'what was all the fuss about?' If only I believed it.