Scout on Depression/Choosing Weakness

 Their images were amusing. I was as amused as a person as I could be; I was brain-dead from the countless hours watching and consuming mindless content. The only thing I could afford to waste was my time, and that I would do. Each second, minute, and hour, I would stare into the abyss of the brightened screens and only notice the reflection that sat disappointed in its existence. It never felt like it was me who stared back, but rather a grayed version exhausted from its self-imprisonment into the virtual world. I avoid my gaze until the screen in front of me becomes a detail; the main event is the aspects of the atmosphere that can never keep me entertained. Again, the screen calls me back in; again, I have no control. As I watch my surroundings move, the screen lures my eyes back. Would I rather test the possibility of happiness knowing that I will risk losing it?

            I prefer to choose my sadness than to lose my happiness.

            I watch; my eyes roll back and forth across the light. I watch; I only remember what I am avoiding and not what I am witnessing. The people so distant need not understand my sorrow, they do not exist but as small characters in another dimension. In the end, no one exists but myself if I wish it. A selfish person is thought to be one who only cares for oneself, but what of one who only sees oneself? Windows, mirrors, pools of tears, and only my reflection returns. Were people once there or have I always been alone? Have I always bore the weight of my mind alone, or was there once someone by me to help lift it? I couldn’t remember if the lights from the screen had ever reflected on a face other than my own, one lost in its light with me.

        If I had always been alone, why can’t I seem to manage now? Why do I reject the figures on the screens, and the voices over the phone? If it was always only I, why have I become discontented? I pretend that I am searching for an answer out of reach. I pretend that I am as helpless as I seem, as useless as I act. The only fear that stops me from quitting everything is the possibility of wasting my potential. It is all a façade: I know exactly what is wrong, exactly what I must do to fix it. It makes it hurt more; I know the solution, but I am too weak to follow it. Instead, I avoid these lights and these voices and this mind. Instead, I wait for someone to lift the weight. Someone who will never arrive.