Moving Forward
Surrealist depression is no different. It can be a struggle. Sometimes you feel like shriveled road kill suffocating in lint. It doesn’t feel good, but giving up is not the American way. Briefly, you bounce back, read a self-help listicle, gulp a cleansing wisdom shake, take up yoga, get rebirthed, and feel better for a nanosecond. That’s something, if nothing. Positive thinking pulls you momentarily into focus, but then lets you slip and laughs as you fall. This betrayal makes you bumpy and murderous. You lose faith in change agents, therapists, gurus, and lite beer advertisements. Psychiatrists shake their heads and mail humongous bills. Wolverines and cassowaries have gone suddenly extinct and can’t help. Clueless friends say you must move on despite your paralysis, which makes crawling feel like a sprint. You are alone with your struggle. Flat, stinking, lonely road kill waiting for rapacious Raptors to pick your bones white again, to make you pure and terrible, alive and well, satisfied again to live in hell.
