Depression is death. The death of hopes, dreams and meaning. It’s a gradual withering and graying of the world you breath life into, which wanes as one falls deeper into slumber.
Depression is not death. Because no one returns from the dead like one can from the clutches of depression if one wanted it bad enough. Within the deep, dark recesses of my heart today, I feel the threshing of my metaphysical limbs. There is hope.