You speak about depression,as if it's a name attached to a face.As if it's an open bared soul,a visible heart on a sleeve,an ever present tear on a cheek.You speak about depression as if it has a name.As if it's personality is fixed,as if it can be seen instead of felt and as if it were chosen,when instead it chooses.You speak about depression as if you have met it,as if it resides in each person the same,as if it has the absolute inability to laugh and smile.You speak about depression as if it were a singular cell.
It's not.
Depression isn't the unheard sadness,but the looming mockery of dissatisfaction after each laugh.It's the inability to feel at peace.It's late nights but happy mornings.It's breathing ...
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