As far as depressive tendencies go, I have reduced them over the years to mere figments of existence.
I accept the bodily requirements of homeostasis - eat regularly, sleep regularly, urinate regularly. Similarly, I am aware of the oscillations of my own mood, and I manage these as best I am able.
This morning, I woke up after a decent sleep feeling as though I had not slept at all. The consequence of this was not just tiredness, but the impression that the whole of existence is a futile improbability which I am unfortunate to experience at all. The miracle of life can sometimes be a weight which we drag along with ourselves, to no definite purpose.
The sense of despair lasted until well into the afternoon, and only by 2pm I was just about re-emerging through my surface. Feeling better now, I can reflect an over-dramatic nature, and ponder the paradox of reason against instinct.
I hurt when I do not get answers to everything, even to questions whose answers are painful or unknowable. The hurt takes the form of disgust and shame at my lack of knowledge, and the reconciliation with a self which is incomplete. I consider that I am a being constructed of facts; and these facts guide and justify whatever decisions I make. Yet this is surely incorrect.
There is no understanding which supports most of what I do, and usually this is a comfortable enough situation. When my demeanour is more stable, I shrug dismissively, because it's just the human condition in all its emptiness. Some days, this vacuum is almost joyful.
Attention and motivation and confidence fluctuate without explanation. These too are mere figments of a self which endures without knowing why. The ship and the water are each unconscious of themselves, and of each other, influencing each other blindly and incessantly, until the former is overwhelmed.
I am at times the ship and at times the water, a bisected self either about to capsize, or asserting the pressure which causes the listing. The listing, I call the world, and the aggregation of expectancy, and assumed expectancy disguised as the mind's own wishes.
In reality, the ship and the water never existed, and just stand as images of what it must mean to live at all.
