Depression is the colour of mold. A sickly array of rotten candy, blooming and festering as it feeds on the dead things inside us.

Normally, we are able to mourn the dead, prepare for loss as they die. After all, all dreams die slowly. They linger, clutching at us as we try to walk away, reminding us of everything that could have been, showing us the reflections of our dreams in puddles of piss. Usually, we can step back, say goodbye, walk away. Leave the screeching near-corpses of our hopes behind and allow them to die and be buried. We’re able to go down the corridor, choose life and pick out a new dream. Maybe a smaller dream, one that needs our help to move, or a dream that isn’t so ambitious. A dream with some kind of disability, so that we don’t become consumed by it.
Sometimes we’re really kak at growing our dreams to fruition. What looked like a healthy baby dream, gurgling and blinking at us as we drew the future in it’s eyes, turns out to have carbon monoxide poisoning. That accounts for the healthy glow, but that dream is fucked. No amount of hope or hard work is going to achieve anything.

Despite all of these potential pitfalls, growing dreams can be really rewarding. The only place you can really go wrong is next to that hospital bed. Your dream can not die unless you walk away, but you can’t bring yourself to do that. So you stand there, watching as its eyes sink into it’s skull, and hair falls out to coat the pillow in a mat of what will never be. Slowly, the skin turns sallow and cheekbones become more and more prominent, like a paedophile’s erection. This dream feeds off your sadness, fear and useless hope.

Maybe if you stand there for a little longer, it will get better. So you watch hands lose the ability to grip, and see your dream shrink and wither as it becomes unable to eat. No more words come from its mouth, just nonsense, belligerent and confused screaming, stale spit. Still you stand.
Bedsores start erupting and now you can see the putrid insides of your dream, the maggots moving between ribs, feasting on the flesh. Can you look away yet, or is the mumbling almost esoteric, magical? Maybe you believe that, although this dream is over, you can learn something from its demise. So you bend, listening as madness pours forth. You search for a code, for some repetition. It can’t all be garbage.

By now, the sheets have become a shroud. They are soaked through with sweat, tears, blood, urine and pus. They are hard, a mould which traces the body of your dream perfectly, unyieldingly. Slowly, mold begins to blossom in the damp places. The corners of your dream’s mouth are a velvety olive green, a white furry mold grows along the body, sometimes accompanying a blue mold.

Depression is when you become transfixed by this shifting variety of colourful putrefication. Even the murmurings of your dream, that breathing corpse, fade. It becomes a kaleidoscope of unrepentant sadness, and it can so easily engulf you.


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