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Untitled Hands
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I hate depression.
It steals years from your life.
God I’m young I can’t afford this;
memory loss and black holes
where there should be life.
Someone basks in the sun, sipping champagne with no worries saying this is a peak of life and I think what life, how can life peak when it rarely even lifts, my peak is being able to laugh, laugh for a moment until the memories - or my lack of memories - come back to me and make me cringe under their heavy weight.
This is what you can’t love, someone who lives life like this; we are supposed to smile and laugh and enjoy things, and I think enjoy what, what am I to enjoy when there are no tastes, no scents, when even what I know is the sunlight seems more like a grey shadow. I want to delete these words because they make it more real but I think, how could it be more real than it already is. I can’t see you because my tongue is heavy and locked and my mind is folding itself further and further into itself. I will be gone soon and there will again be only memory loss and black holes in my place. My life is like a torn apart cloth, useless, making no sense.
I hate depression.
It steals your life.

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Kairouan - Tunisia
By Véronique Debord-Lazaro
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Opaque  by  andbamnan