It is heavy, this thing that I carry.
Like a book.
No, no, it is a library.
But it is invisible.
A burden so heavy,
Every muscle in my body cries out.
But no one can see it.
And no one can hear it.
In the wake of every morning,
I long for the hope that I can show it to the world.
And I never can.
It has no soul.
It has no body.
It has no voice.
It is my voice.
It is my body.
It is my soul.
But it has darkened every piece of me.
Every shred of my humanity tainted.
Every ounce of my happiness drained.
I am a slave.
I am bound to the darkness of my mind.
I am chained to the depths of my despair.
I can see every thing I once cherished just inches out of reach.
Even if I touch it, I cannot feel it.
Every part of me is numb.
Numb if only to the feeling of feeling.
Emptiness is all that I feel.
Hollow.
Worn.
Drained.
A shell.
Maybe I am the library.
Maybe I am the book.
Only a book with a single word.
Buried deep in the middle,
So far, someone might search a lifetime and never find it.
Depression.