Spiraling out of depression.

Days spent entirely on a couch. Feeding on Marlboro and wine.
I remember having a bottle opener for a hand. An ashtray for a mouth.
Packs stacked into small, frail houses. Bottles gathered around like a small city rising out of my coffee table.
And in my mind, indifference bloomed. It painted never ending gray landscapes.
It never got bored of all that nothing.
Every once in a while I would chew something vaguely edible.
The same thing over and over again.
Once a week I shaved. To look in the mirror. To see if I'm still there.
And there was someone. But somehow it felt like he was my substitute. Someone vaguely familiar.

Days spent with the blinds closed. In silent desperation.
I smoked. There was nothing else to do.
I smoked anything I could get my hands on.
I liked to imagine that the smoke, losing itself in the room was my soul.
That I would die at the end of the cigarette.
A common fantasy, I suppose. But I enjoyed it nevertheless.
Oh, and there was the music. Slow, sad and soothing.
I never imagined you can survive on noise until then.

Most nights I spent in a park near my apartment.
I walked around the darkened paths avoiding any human contact.
Sometimes I turned away from trees because I felt they somehow knew me by then.
On my way home, I'd buy a bottle of Jack, and head on home.
There, I took shots like fists to the jaw until I knocked myself out.
I would wake up the following morning, in the cold light of day,
with massive headaches that would keep me in bed until late in the afternoon.
I used to look at the carefully folded clothes
that I wore the night before standing on the chair.
They seemed to remind me that I will function again one day.

I spent a lot of time indoors.
I remember just sitting at the window.
With a look of loss I stood and watched the world outside for hours.
I can't really recall anything else than having questions in my head.
Questions with no particular direction.
Just a plain and never ending curiosity that I was never really bent on satisfying.
My mind felt like a river flowing from and into the unknown.
By that time, all the flowers in my apartment had died.
The birds stopped coming to my window.
I didn't eat anything so there was no thrash to take out.
I was living in a sort of functional coma. I just breathed, smoked and drank water.
Gary Jules/Lana del Rey - Born into this Mad World.

After a couple of weeks, I left home. I left the city.
I started eating and working.
My body seemed to bloom, wrecked as it was.
My arms unfolded and grew. My stomach, shy at first, started to make demands again.
By the time I came back home, I had already written half a notebook.
I started doing chores around the house. I started dressing decent again. For a while.
Then it hit me again.
It was sort of like a flu that you just can't shake.
It goes away for some time then it comes right back.
I remained in my apartment, convinced it would pass again. I drank, I drew, I dreamed.
One morning, after my first shot of whiskey, I looked outside the balcony.
The world was the same. But it was a bit warmer.
You could barely notice, but it actually felt like a something had changed.
I went out that day. It was 10a.m on a rainy Sunday and the churches still rang their bells.
I bought a type writter. And from it, color slowly seemed back into my life.