We Have the Power to Save Us
I’m sitting inside the screened porch, big old bright harvest moon hanging over the pond. Its reflection lights up the night sky just enough to make out the silhouette of tree tops.
I faintly hear my daughter’s voice singing in the distance and if I listen intently she’s in rhythm with the crickets surrounding me as she strums her guitar.
We live buried inside of nowhere, detached from the world and all its chaos and rage, the every day flounder and demands. It’s just me and the crickets, and the weak reception of my daughter’s magical music as if it plays in the background from a transistor radio.
The moment is flawless.
I’ve experienced depression for as long as I can remember. Back in my younger days, even just a few years ago my mood was more stable. I was in love with the high from mania, lasting for long, lengthy periods of time and I would rest during the short bursts of depression.
It’s changed, as everything does. I don’t remember when exactly. My awareness is incapable of seeing past right now and right now I feel as if the depression never dissipates. The rapid wave of mania which passes within days is my only reprieve. I often miss riding the high and thriving from elated dysfunction.
Now the depression is exactly that. It’s a depression, a burdening weight in which I feel physically burdened. It’s a chemical imbalance in my brain impelling symptoms, yet my mind is inspired, functional and unique.
I stood from my chair, deeply inhaled all I could feel and stepped outside the porch to sit among the fireflies. My thoughts drifted off and I found myself questioning reality.
Each day is as we create it. When I think about old age and what I want to look back on it’s always about the memories.
Therefore I live my life by the standard of, Are these the memories I want to create?
Art comes in all forms the same as the ability to create all things but most astounding — the creation of life through words, visual art, music. It’s rather endless.
This is a powerful gift and I am inspired by everything. It’s calling to me, closing in on me, easing my soul. If I choose to see it, it’s there. The same as I choose to see the memories I live for.
I grab a pencil and paper and write it down.
Write it down.
How could I feel so sad with nothing but inspiration and wondrous beauty in my life?