conversion
most days, getting out of bed
is a war
clinging to the comfort of the sheets,
shying away from the cold of reality.
but once i'm out of bed
i have to move,
every action
spurred on
by an invisible whip
that cracks against my spine
until i stand a little straighter.
maybe it's
obligation,
the pressure that comes with
letting yourself come
unglued.
being crazy
takes too much work.
better to
get out of bed
and pretend.
maybe it's
mania,
frantically searching
for something to keep away
the lethargy
of who i used to be.
writing
glues together the cracks
that form in my psyche,
daily repose that i'm granted
in spare minutes of free time,
when i can gather my thoughts
and spin them outward,
tossed like frisbees,
knit like yarn,
until i can no longer recognize them
as my own.
taking my depression
and replacing it
with mania,
words upon words that i carry on my back
until they drive me into the ground.
i convert my depression
into meaning.
find solace
in darkness scrawled out on white pages.
i am a missionary in the mountains,
preaching to my depression's closed door
until it finally gives in,
settling back in my head,
making room for something more
until it rears up
and spreads again.
thus the cycle
continues,
conversion and relapse.
depression is eternal.
and i am confined by mortality.
it will outlive me.
but maybe i can create something
that will live
longer
than my disease.