This is the first time ever that I've felt shitty about my birthday. I don't know if that's the cause of the shitty feelings, but damned if it isn't on top of me, and at the forefront of my thoughts. Another birthday. A birthday alone. Fuckin yuk.
Depression doesn't fit the ordinary soul. It doesn't fit ANY soul, truly.. but at least with the creative, the glamorous, the literary elite.. there can be a glossing over of its true nature. Beautifully melancholy, if you will. A state of artistic martyrdom, a necessary burden that is tied to creative beauty. It's all magnificently heartwrenching, if you can make yourself believe what is seen on prime time tv. For the rest of us, however, it's just ugly. The loss of purpose, the replacement of free thought with obsessive self analyzation, the smiles that feel so heavy you can't even bear to think about them, much less fake them.. it's all truly ugly. Unnatural. And damn near impossible to swim your way out of. I'm sure it's the same for the everyone, from the inside.
A little gloss would be nice, at times. I'm just sayin'.
