There are photographs of who I used to be, but none of them can be trusted. There are various accounts of my behaviour during the course of my breakdown, but they’re neither here nor there. In the midst of my depression, there were no words, only the desire to forget about my life and everyone I had ever loved. There was a woman I was seeing at the time who shall remain nameless. When she found out about my diagnosis, and that I’d been prescribed medication for it, she asked me what I had to be depressed about. Needless to say, I kept my mouth shut and withdrew that little bit more. But it is what it is. We are what we are. Since I took a peek-a-boo into the abyss and figured out writing was the only thing that could save me, I’ve excluded those from my life that don’t share the same beliefs. There is no place in these visions for anyone who can’t step outside themselves, and as such, those that see only a man composed of flesh and bone hold no interest. And yet the need and love of self-expression is a selfish one. It consumes and lets in little daylight. The pressure of picking away while remaining poor and misunderstood weigh heavy on my weary soul, and yet what is there but to continue. After all, the exit back has long since been erased. To put yourself out on a limb- to take a risk with no plan b- oh what a foolish thing, and yet the kicks we get never fail to make our hearts skip a beat. The lonely roads. The empty rooms. They await us still.