The Colors of

Depression

c-hues.com

from
yourself

from
others

their
“normal”

worries

arguments

complaints

Here's the story: Pulverize worries, learn how not to argue, and stop complaining.

Next: Notice how other people exclude you with their language. No matter how genuine they pretend to be, you get the idea they'll never invite you to a hayride or barbecue. If you were in another country, you wouldn't even know or care. You'd feel liberated and one with everything.

Second: Busybodies pop up from nowhere, filled with despair, saying, “You do this! You do that!” They constrain you with questions. It makes you want to go back into the past and camp out at Walden Pond, just to get away from the “well-wishing” townsfolk. The instant they start in on you, say, "They know," and offer them a “free circus set” to allow them to push the miniature trapeze artists, clowns & players around.

Ah, finally, the liars, what a crew! Notice how they're short on details. That's their main deception. They're so natural, aren't they?

(Dream) I'm high on a scaffolding with Achilles, my little West Highland White Terrier, who's been up here lord knows how long without any food or water! I'm terrified of heights, and have to figure out how to get down the scaffolding ladder to get him food without the little dog falling! Oh, no! As I'm making my way down, Achilles jumps, and I manage to catch one of his legs, which he wriggles free, and realize he'd only had a foot or so to drop. Now I'm on some sort of incline, pushing my way up now, trying to pull or push the little dog on my right side up ahead of me so he can make the top! That's where the food is! Well, it would be, if I wasn't in a grocery store with surly clerks who are probably off-duty gangsters, from the way they're acting. Go around that corner up ahead, one of them tells me when I ask where the dog food is. Another clerk goes out of his way to tell me it's almost closing time, anyway, and a third tells me to ask a fourth, who implies the dog food is in with the strawberry jam. I think this is a store I'll avoid in the future, if I can only find some dog food somewhere, and my stepfather tells me to go from Gibson Island, Maryland to Washington, DC. I have to book a flight which can take my dog, then when I'm all set to go via St. Louis, begin to realize I don't actually have to take my dog with me, because he's long-since been dead, and for that matter, so has been my stepfather! That doesn't seem to stop him, because, dead or not, he insists I have to do everything very fast, and as I go through an airport corridor, moving at a brisk pace, he and one of his cronies blends in with me from another corridor. A part of me keeps insisting I don't have to do anything fast at all, that it's an illusion. It tells me to go slow! I'm with one of the suitcases now, being unceremoniously dropped off the conveyor belt into a pile of oversized gold coins. (Fin)

Back in the parallel universe, which happens to be me writing this, I begin to see the struggle between an animating force, driving worries, arguments, and complaining, and a humanizing force, which is struggling uphill from the depths of people's hearts. The animating force is driven mostly by unconscious fear, and is fast. The humanizing force is innocent as a little girl wandering into the room wearing nightclothes, holding a candle. This humanizing force is deep, ancient, mysterious, slow as molasses, and needs to be defended!

Someone from a passing car cries out, “Faggot!” and taking the role of a bodyguard coming out to defend yourself, you call out, “—How deep?” Your high school football coach cries out, “Ladies!” and your powerful inner bodyguard calls out, “—Smarten up!”

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