Passage through

On days like this depression seems to be an incurable sickness, as pestilential and agonizing as viruses come. The only cure to this one is to walk away yourself, to decide to recover, a factor which shames me into battling on against feelings I sense I can rid myself of unlike those who must suffer under pains they know will overwhelm them. I'm coughing and sneezing, thirsty, with a knotted stomach, clenched teeth, and a deep down fatigue, ponderously and questioningly asking for love in every glance, unable to cry, crumpled in my joints and sluggish in my movements. But I'm turning the tourniquet myself, and most days I can drop this instrument while others find me submerged in sickening feelings. The aspect of my nature that opens itself to sensitivity and absorption breaks down the restraints and a flood of cruel feeling swallows normal living. This happens, and I'm willing to accept that factor along my path for now, even more so if my peskering brain could understand to what purpose. But somehow my spirit knows why, or has an inkling to the lawfulness of it, and really is not afraid at all, is not sad, really, just waiting. Then the best remedy is so often sleep. To shut down the central computer buzzing away between my ears and wait for that tender moment of waking when the spirit can whisper audibly the reality it knows. Trust can re-enter the equation then, along with it connectedness and peace. And it is strange how quickly the torment goes away, once my grasp on it is loosened. I must frequently forget what it's like to be so sad because the experience isn't real enough to lend a lasting impression on my core, the real part of me. Perhaps that part sees the experience like passengers who alight from a plane into a noisy terminal - a goal is so steadily in front of them, it just takes walking to it, and the noise is something they've heard many times before, and can't be bothered with. I'm grateful for what's really me, and grateful for the chance to develop it, trust it, love it.