The Malaise Theory of Depression

The lies we tell ourselves
tinted in private colors
create intricate maps, instructions
to hold us against our will
or better angels
upon a devastated course.
They creep into our
chemical soup and wiring,
thickening trickery.
Truth becoming shadow.
Rolling downhill so easily,
scratches, contusions, bleeding wounds
unacknowledged in subterfuge.
“It’s such a beautiful summer day.”
We say, etching out smiles,
even crinkles of the eye.
Alone, in the dark, troubling visions
fail to dissipate at daybreak.
Rolling downhill, smashing into
hidden walls, jagged rock formations.
Stop! Curl into pre-born refuge.
Listen to the angry verdict:
“Surely I am cursed, a failure.”
Ordered to protect the lies
as they insidiously poison
and blind.
Never let truth break through.
More easily led.
Less alive.
Stop! Look! Listen!
Underneath that solemn grave of lies,
rich earth has secrets to reveal.
Radiant seed, planted in our birth,
only ours to bring to life,
if we dare perceive,
beyond the damage,
beyond the lies,
learn to dance ecstatic shadows
into brighter days.

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