How can I ever explain to them? How can I ever begin to describe how I act the way I do some days. How can I ever tell them about the pain that empties all my energy by noon. How can I tell them, about how desperately empty I feel, and no matter what I ever do, it refuses to leave me.

Depression is the deranged and very creative serial killer, who tears your fingernails off one by one before sawing your fingers. Waiting periods of time, eagerly, watching you heal and return to close shade of normal. Until finding peace once again, because happiness only exists in the daze of the ignorant and the innocence of children. When such point is reached, it pins you to the ground and continues to devour the remaining flesh left little by little; while you wish and pray to lose your ability to clot blood. So you can end the excruciating pain. Such wounds heal and eventually become scars; but when you lose a limb, one can never erase the thought or memories, not even with amnesia, that you will never be complete.

Then you unhealthily return to the past, reliving it over and over, wrinkled and worn-out memories of the days when ignorance guided your path, when immortality was almost tangible; desperately searching for the sanity that once exuded from your words, imploring for asylum.

Depression is a self sustaining ever starving creature that feeds on you. Like a fetus implanted by non-human life-forms from distant time dimensions, nurturing itself from your meat. Your baby, your flesh and blood running through it’s veins, whos only goal is too eat you inside out. Taking little, slowly as it grows, but surely making its way through; and when there is nothing left of you, it frees from its shelter, ripping your insides to live its life, leaving you in a glorious pool of blood and agony. You lay on the surface of your world, bleeding your days away; because the thought of anything else hurts like heaven.
So you wait, for time to go by, checking if it will ever come back to finish you up. Your body healing without you realizing, in the mean time. Time goes by, and it never appeared, gone for good this time, so you naively run from your prison into surrounding evergreen pasture, celebrating your new acquired freedom. What appears to be happiness lasts for a many of moons, until when you find yourself alone and realize how truly empty you are. You discover the broken bloody mess it left inside, and how irreversible the damage is. You discover it took so long to realize such thing, because you are so so numb, and life seems like a piece of charred glass, just a alone and never a piece of anything else. So you take extreme measures to feel alive, until you realize nothing will ever be the same; because after depression has its way with you, nothing feels right again. Because it never leaves a thing worth caring for behind.

Then come the panic attacks. Times when you feel your viscera banging themselves against the walls of flesh surrounding them, to make an escape from tormentation, when at the same time your lungs choke on the air that once sustained your survival. Time freezes over and becomes eternity and your distress becomes infinite; your forever lasting galaxy of torture and terror
It’s like screaming your lungs away, in a time when every person near is voluntarily deaf. While you pray to the magical over-powered life form that lives in the skies, to give you sensitivity back, to give you life back. Even thought you know your plead will only be written down and deposited in a suggestion box that will be lost in time and never again seen. So you wish and beg for all the horror, mutilation and living nightmares to come back, just to have something, just to feel something, just to be someone again.
Because life after such uneventful times are clouds being carried away by fast winds.



Gutemala City, Guatemala

  • Artist
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Artist's Description

A description of my current experiences.



Artwork Comments

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