There is something oddly comforting about engaging in conversations regarding depression and failure. All I can suggest, is never talk about anything downtown, under the protection of city lampposts, because you will fall in love. And when you weigh your value on society’s scales, not a one can help but walk away feeling they’re malnourished. Everything can be connected, if you find the right pieces, or if you don’t mind an abstract picture. Understand that nothing and no one can escape gentle abuse, and subtle neglect. This is when it becomes important to have the capacity to imagine the black mare, always waiting in the meadow. She will take you away, where you can collect yourself again.
Nothing soothes like the sweetened water that will soon be pissed out. And this is okay, this life of repetition. One foot in front of the other is oh-so-captivating. It doesn’t have to be a burden, or dull, or exhausting.
Three winters ago, my heat went out. I found myself upset at having to deal with something so ordinary. It was a particularly cold winter, which is rare in California. Without the money to fix the issue, I was forced to wear layers upon layers of clothing indoors. Within weeks, my skin began to flake and would easily bleed. It hurt to breathe, to move. I would keep myself warm at night by burning my books in the chimney. I want to forget that, because it is fine now, it is fine.
I had a peach tree. I never missed it, until I no longer had it.