Melancholy resembles a vine.

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My depression has engulfed me, like a vine engulfing an oak.
It has a life of its own, taking energy from my core and gradually suffocating me.

During the worst stages of serious depression, I experience moods that are not my own.
These moods belong to the depression, much as the leaves on a tree's high branches belong to the vine.

My pen bleeds solitary as I try to repaint the dark pictures with rainbow colors.
The roots of this vine have sunk so deep in my core that removing them could kill me.
It has become a bitter part of my life, waging wars between my defects and worries.

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