I have become a cliché of a writer. Sitting in a corner with my laptop in tow, I have become one of those people that annoy me when I walk in a crowded café. How did this happen? As I look out the window, the rain pours harder, blurring the world outside. Could things get any more dramatic? Maybe. And it just did. Florence + the Machines’ St. Jude came on and I’m starting to feel the melancholy creep in.
St. Jude. The patron saint for lost causes. These days I feel like I should be calling out to him for help. It seems like my usual pick-me-uppers haven’t been very effective. Reaching out have left me with a slight burn and putting down my feelings into words haven’t been going well either. I am depressed, and I can’t even say it without feeling like I’m belittling clinical depression. Maybe I’m just sad. Lonely. Desperate? I never saw myself that way, but when someone hints that you are, you can’t help but wonder: am I? And if I am, what for?
Being alone with my thoughts have never been good for me. It amplifies my insecurities, leaving me deaf for reason. I need a distraction, but anything I could think of only makes things worse. I find myself deeper in despair and sometimes I feel like there’s no getting out of it. Maybe I’m right. Maybe I’m wrong. My mind is in a haze I can’t be bothered to brave. I just want to sit in this corner and let things figure things out on their own. I want to stay in my bubble, listen to Florence Welch and the soft pitter-patter until the world around me stops spinning. But will it ever?