Today was a shitty day. Nothing bad happened, really, but every motion I made felt weighed down by some kind of heavier gravity. My mind felt like a swamp, my thoughts lost in yellow, low-lying fog. Every task seemed tedious. I felt illogically, terribly alone. All of which is to say that today (all day) I felt unendingly and heavily depressed. I’m familiar with days like this. I’ve come to recognize my personal brand of depression as a dark, continuous concert of feeling. I’ve struggled with it for pretty much the entirety of my life. Depression was something I had to struggle with itself proved a source of distress. All this things help. No doubt. When I sense the darkness rising, I start writing. Writing has became a act of self-preservation. Accordingly, depression is not something I ever hope to rid myself of. It’s not something I hope to cure. Rather, it’s something I’ve resolved to co-exist with, to utilize when able, fear when appropriate, and work continuously to contain. For whatever reason, reminding myself of this brings me something like peace.