It was days like this when I felt it more than ever: I wasn’t a real human.
My heart is heavy, she thought. It’s not just a saying. It is what is-heavy, a great stone lodged in my breast, pressing down my whole being. How can I even stand straight and look out upon the world? I am doubled over into myself and, for all the weight, find only emptiness.
When people call it that I always get pissed off because I always think depression sounds like you just get like really sad, you get quiet and melancholy and just like sit quietly by the window sighing or just lying around. A state of not caring about anything. A kind of blue kind of peaceful state.
When Dad was in the middle of a description of the hotel’s laundry facility, I interrupted. “Why haven’t you told me today, like you do every day, that Mom’s going to be better soon?
The only time she has anything resembling a life is when she sleeps because when she sleeps she can dream.
His cigarettes helped mark the passage of time, especially on days that seemed all sun and sky…The dependable dwindling of his cigarette supply reassured him that he hadn’t been left out here, that eventually he would have to ride into town and things would still be there, that the world hadn’t stopped whirling.
A radio was playing quietly. Nobody was listening. It was there to drown out the silence.
Regret is her companion and the one who whispers to her often. She has even let hope die and that brings about despair.
Uncommon anxiety came to us in common hours when other people were doing mundane things like taking out the trash or checking their phones. But there was nothing to be done for this. We couldn’t change who we were or what had happened.
In tragedy and despair, when an endless night seems to have fallen, hope can be found in the realization taht the companion of night is not another night, that the companion of night is day, that darkness always gives way to light, and that death rules only half of creation, life the other half.