The Old Black Abyss

Oldie

So this one day I was sitting there on the lip of the black abyss.

My curtains were fluttering in a soft, balletic breeze. Their creamy satin was dappled and polished by the first squint of morning sun. the little birdies were cheeping. The little chickies were peeping. The gorgeous butterflies were arcing curves with such ane legance in their skintight ensembles.

They turned the flowers into bumblers by comparison. They turned the robins into audience. They taught the oak trees a new humility.

And I was trying just as hard as I could to glow golden like a buttercup, to whisper gently like some bells in the navels of angels.

But I was snarling like a pitbull. I was growling like a pinscher. I was thinking about tumors the size of a basketball. I was thinking about unknown scleroses. I was thinking about endless melancholia.

I was thinking about humans who kick other humans in the head, these other humans who kick other humans in the head. And Fear was pounding on my pillow. And Fear was making my heavy head bounce. And I was trying to fall gently into Fear’s bulging pelvis.

But I saw reams of dark yardage, not peaches and lilies. I saw reams of dark yardage, not butterflies and peonies. So I had to call up the doctor. And I said, “Doctor! Doctor!” And the doctor said, “Honey, you’ve got to send those sorry neurons into rehab. You’ve got to pump up those weak receptors. You’ve go to reintroduce those dour pathways to those longforgotten pleasure principles.”

“You’ve got to take a few of these.” So I took a few of those. And I started wearing sports bras in public. And I started baking peach crisp. And I started making conversation.

And for a while, it didn’t even bother me that all these vaguely human rump roasts were hogging all the choice social positions.

And for a while, it didn’t even bother me that all the bodies were going down, were lying dead, like they were dead, which they were, like it was a brand-new human trait or something.

I even dusted my Venetian blinds. I washed my burners. I woke up laughing. But then I thought:

I hate being dependent on those little pharmaceuticals because I don’t really trust those little pharmaceutical men in their little pharmaceutical suits in those big, little pharmaceutical houses where they seem to be frequently making mistakes, I mean those big ,little pharmaceutical mistakes. So I had to stop taking those little pharmaceuticals.

But in a couple weeks, that abysmal monster was back.

But I think I may have learned something up there while my neurons were in rehab. I think I may have had a glimpse of the repression of my depression.

I think I may have had a big lick of freedom. And I can still taste it.

I don’t know how to get rid of the box that asks you to subscribe. It is free, though. Will always be free.