February 20, 2017

Since I got back to crafting about two months ago, I haven’t had a single threatening low. You know how they say, when you’ve reached rock bottom the only way to go is up? It’s like I had sunk to the sea bed of shitty feelings about existence, and now I was floating upwards finding new meaning and understanding why I am still here. This is a cycle I have gone through so many times before that now, even in my happy highs, I am cynic about there being a fine line between the end of my lows and the beginning of my highs.

My rock bottom does not always consist of a hard ground of coral, that my feet touches to propel me upwards back towards an earlier elation. Sometimes my rock bottom is an impossible underground well of quicksand, which reminds me I can sink even further.

These are things I hardly think about in my highs. I’m a child on a thrilling roller-coaster ride, eating candy floss and having the time of my life, until the amusement park closes and it is inevitably time to go back to a hellish home. I hardly think about the body of despair that’s my shadow.

One night, during this unbelievable time of joy, exciting class work and the fulfilling art activities I have been engaging in, I lay in bed wondering what I would do if I woke up the next morning with an event to show up at, and not the strength to leave the bed.

And my mind told me that my depression will strike when it wills, as it always does, whether I worry about it or not. And it will feel as shitty as it does; and some of my projects may die but for this moment, this day, like the past many had been fulfilling. I was delightfully tired and I knew insomnia will not be my companion. Like my depression, it will happen again, but for this night, like the past thirty or so, I will have a good night’s sleep.

Made of Sand
Not Dura, but Alaminadura

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