In a state of depression so deep that my soul hurts, knowing that my spirit is breaking. Fatigued, exhausted and worn out from merely existing – the monastic existence called life, struggling to live. My own elements tearing at one another, diseased – a virus feasting on a physically healthy host from within.
Dark clouds blocking the horizon, albeit, it is known that there is a horizon that has yet to be seen. Not faith but rather, self-manifestation of a non-existent reality. Looking forward, looking back, then looking forward again – a vine, a noose a playground – swinging…cautious steps in crossing the street, looking forward, never forgetting to look back. Reflections from the future, timeless traveling – from tomorrow, living in the best years today, yet feeling as if they are the worst.
Depression – a sensation that has contributed to creating the most beautiful forms of art throughout modern history. A sensation that every human incurs, yet is never embraced. An intricate unwanted portion of life, in its absence, we would never truly know or have value. An internal struggle that enhances endurance and mental stamina. Uniquely triggered, and consequently uniquely resolved, unlike an ailment, internalized, masked, never to be seen by outsiders.
Fiat currency, milled from the yet to develop leaves of a still young trunk – the Mastodon xylem tissue. When the foundation is solid, the branches will spread, the leaves will come into their own, the fruit will blossom, eventually departing to create their own. Then the soil will be nourishing, but the tree will not be as it once was from the beginning.
Unrealistically searching for a chemical solution, I found myself staring at empty bottles, consumed with locating the Djin – a spirit that could give me three wishes.
Yet never pondering what these wishes would be:
Aspirations for wealth? Although I had never defined wealth. Eternal life? Yet I had never defined what form of life it would be, an existence in the scientific age: cloned, artificially birthed, alloy implanted? or Traditionally Timeless: books, poetry, art, sculptures or writing. The latter, novels, chapters and pages, full with you…and them.
Perhaps the depression is rooted in the unknown, and being human, all is unknown, therefore the depression will never truly dissipate. I find joy in the essence of those that contain my heart, under The Sun, shaded by The Tree.
Robert Mondavi Vineyard – Napa Valley, California
King Block Dean (ElSinSey)