If I were a painter I would pour a bucket of blue skies in every work of art that would be touched of my brush, I would plant small white and fluffy clouds here in there, I would paint buzzing bees, to make sure my paintings won't go barren and I'd sell them for hopes and dreams on an empty market.
I'm not a painter, and apparently art has managed to stay away from me my whole life. If I were a poet though I would fill pages, like the good old Mihai Eminescu did, singing the chants of love, dreaming of fairy lands and a happy untainted world, and spread my word across the globe on butterfly wings.
I stumble every time I pour rimes on a blank page, and my reptilian mind seems to always pull the handbrake on my unfilled verses. That's why I'm no poet, and my poetic sense of humor fades away, along with the big blue skies and the butterflies in my mind.
I could have been a writer though, a novelist, soaking every hostile eyeball in my fantasy worlds, where nothing really happens but everything makes sense. I could have opened gentle eyes just, to close them after midnight, and nobody would ever care, not you, not me, not ghost rains in the desert.
Mornings are to be grateful and to have the best coffee in town, and this is how they taught us. Mine was no reason to be grateful, and I don't usually drink coffee. It started with a cloudy weather, and a few raindrops here and there, and suddenly everything wasn't making any sense at all. I mentally hit the leg of the table, and everything turned into a snowball of gray thoughts, frustrations, disappointment, and hopeless thoughts.
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I got out just to see that I was basically the only one trying to make any sense of this dull, autumnal Sunday, and trying to keep my sanity floating. Pure disappointment when there's no one around to *ping pong a few words*, so I got back home, facing the dirty dishes, the Hive posting tab opened, after no word had the courage to face you guys on my blog, and found myself again on a fast treadmill that led nowhere.
I remember that Sadhguru once said in one of his talks that depression is *intelligence working against itself*, and how right he was, because that was my intelligence doing today, and that's what kept on doing for hours and hours, beating me at a score...
I found myself today stuck between a few walls, more than four and less than a lot, with memories that I can't bring back to life, with unfulfilled dreams that seem almost too far to run after them, facing an absent delinquent to be punished for all this, and ended up sleeping more than needed. Not even food tasted good today... Probably tomorrow will.
Tomorrow when the sky will be painted blue again, when sun will rise and shine wiping away this awful Sunday, when birds and bees will sing again, and crowds will march on the streets again, all this will be just a grain of dust on an empty shelf that nobody looks at.
Today though, was a nasty depressive day, when nothing makes sense, no war seems worth fighting, and no one deserving my attention. You know what was different today, from many others like this one, that I had in the past? This blank page that gets to be filled with my thoughts, and the sense of escape that a tiny blog can have on myself. My therapist on rainy days and source of belonging, when nowhere to hide...
Now the dishes are clean again, the walls have suddenly faded and my post is finally written. I'm alive.
**Thanks for attention,**
**Adrian**