Would You Just... Write It Anyway?

I don't feel like writing this. I don't feel I have anything to say. It is half one in the morning and I am in from work, foot-sore, brain chundering, listening to the rain patter and plop outside my window.

I don't feel like writing this. I have a brain racing many miles an hour with all the negatives, all the reasons to give up, all the dumbnesses that I contain.

I don't want to do this. I want to climb into bed and watch videos of goats falling down slides and posh kids rapping after anaesthetic and 1000-DEGREE WHITE HOT KNIVES CUTTING THROUGH GOLF BALLS!!! -- to stare at the screen with the folds of night wrapped around me and stay very still and almost escape my thoughts, to feel my eyes heavier and heavier and eventually fall asleep like this.

I don't want to sit here alone at my desk with the distant howl of traffic and whirr of computer and pittle-pottle of rain, my lighted room the only light in all the darkness; to sit up here above the world and whisper onto the page, sing into the screen. I don't want to whisper. I don't want to sing. I have no music in me any more that I can turn to song. My sonorous chambers are filled with sand.

I don't feel like trying. I don't feel like fighting. I don't feel like writing this at all. The depression has hold of my synapses, threads its dark desires into my mind. it pries open my mouth with chilling tendrils, squeezes vocal chords, and in my own voice out come its bitter words, blank and jagged as the grave.

Don't try, says my voice. Don't want. Do nothing. Give up. Give in.

So I'm just not going to listen. I'm going to not feel like writing this and yet write it anyway. I'm going to do the opposite of what the voice tells me, and see what happens.

I may have no words, no voice, no song right now. But I've still got an arm. Yep, I can feel it. And that arm has a hand. And that hand has a middle finger, which is sticking all the way up. Sit on it, you dickhead depression. Sit on it and swivel.