Mans best friend, the faithful black dog

I haven't left the house in seven days.

Seven days.

I've been sat here with the black dog.

Depression. I want to write about it, I keep typing out lines and deleting them. It all sounds contrived and false, it's probably the most real writing you'd get from me though.

I want to write about how beautiful depression is, about how exquisite it is to float in the blackness, how you breathe it in. It's a seductress, a haunting lover. How it feels like tinkling ivory piano keys or deep black velvet, warm and soft.

How it sings to you, just you, how you're so special, so utterly amazing and beautiful and wonderful you are.

That's what I let it say to me now.

Years ago it was a different story, years ago it tried to kill me.

I used to let the blackness in, I used to let it consume me, to eat away at me, to destroy my soul.

I drank, I tried cannabis, I tried self harming, I tried suicide. Anything to to block it out, cut it out or get me out of it.

Those where the days when the blackness was filled with faceless screaming monsters, when I couldn't look into it let alone look at myself. It filled my being, it drove icicles of fear right through my heart and I made so many mistakes, always running from the blackness that consumed me, emanated from me, was me.

It's broken my heart and torn me apart me than I care.

It's taken up so much of my life and I want it gone. I don't want this hold over me, I don't want this eternal dance of devoid emotion. I won't let it anymore.

So I dance, I put headphones on and I let the music wash over me, let the music wash it out of me. I dance with it, I love it, I don't let it go, I squeeze the life out of.

I'm too young to let this control the rest of my life, I'm going to tear it up, burn it up, blast it out of the universe.

It's not my friend and it's not faithful.