Depression is an unwelcome weekend guest back from vacation, soon to be off again. I never know when he will knock on my door or when I will find the baggage packed. He doesn't stick around as long now, nor do his soft whisperings of hopelessness ring as true, but there he is. At work, at play, driving home, choosing movies and songs - the sad eyes are on me. It's draining telling him to fuck off all the time. I guess it's good that I recognize his shadow enough to say it.
Writing about him usually sends him off for coffee, at least for a bit.
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