Depression

I’m blind, I’m blind, he often reckons. But no. It is just a very, very dark cave. What to do with a cave this dark? Nothing, except to try and find light. How? Now, that is tricky part.

The floor is very slippery; remember that feeling of fear in your stomach you have when you ice skate and try to slide instead of falling? It’s that kind of floor, but he has no skates and sliding is not an option. Too bad he has always been the clumsy-two-left-feet kind of person, completely incapable of being coordinate enough to slide like a regular human being. The only viable solution is to walk, and walk ever so slowly. This would be easier if he had something to hold on to… even though he stretches out his arms to try and find some equilibrium, as well as a “grabable” thing; it just is not going to happen. There are no rails, no walls, no friendly arms to help him find the way out. No nothing. And he must go on.

From time to time, he finds some stalagmites and stalactites. They are sharp and weird, but they are full of salty water, the only kind of water he can find in this godforsaken place. It does not quench his thirst, but what else can he do but drink it all the same? If only he could find something to help with his raving hunger as well...

He often asks himself these same old questions “How long have I been here? Will I ever find a way out? Will someone come for me? Can I keep on fighting?”. He is terrified of asking the questions as much as he is of finding the matching answers. He knows that being lost for so long will only decrease the chances of being found; but he just cannot help himself. His surviving instincts are working overtime to make sure he keeps on breathing, to make sure he finds salvation. Nature just is not working in his favor; oh, what else can he do but fight?

Is that… is that light I see? A tiny line of light, ever so small and thin, shines on the floor. He begins to hope, beings to feel safe, beings to dream again. As if right on cue, the same nature, that seems to be working against him, kicks in: he steps on the wrong place, loses his balance and is sent sliding down the same hard path he had climbed with such effort.

Somehow he still lives. He is bruised and bloody, but alive. He is, once again, hopeless. It hurts a bit to breathe as he realizes that being alive is a curse, not a miracle. Praying is useless because only an inexistent God would let him rot in this hell, when he had always been good and kind to others, often forgetting about himself. He desperately wants to be found, but is now certain it is only a silly dream. So he lets himself lie on the floor. He is tired, oh, so tired. Please, please, let me sleep.