Exerpt from my Independant Writing Project
Depression is a pale, colorless thing.
I don't mean the overdone Goth chick that dyes her hair black with shoe polish and gets her clothes from Hot Topic and moans endless poems about blood and killing herself. That's a cry for attention, and should be treated as such. Sometimes they go away, sometimes they don't.
But real depression is a faceless, colorless being, with long, ragged hair and worn, tired clothing that's falling off. She (or he, I can never tell when I see them) wraps her arms around whoever she's feeding off of, and slides slowly between them and the world. She leeches the color from their world too, until they're as colorless as she is, and she's the only thing that they see anymore.
I don't mean the overdone Goth chick that dyes her hair black with shoe polish and gets her clothes from Hot Topic and moans endless poems about blood and killing herself. That's a cry for attention, and should be treated as such. Sometimes they go away, sometimes they don't.
But real depression is a faceless, colorless being, with long, ragged hair and worn, tired clothing that's falling off. She (or he, I can never tell when I see them) wraps her arms around whoever she's feeding off of, and slides slowly between them and the world. She leeches the color from their world too, until they're as colorless as she is, and she's the only thing that they see anymore.