What is this quiet sadness? This seeing through a muddy, smeared glass, this pushing through a gluey, yeasty bread dough? This is depression. But where? Why?
Food doesn’t numb the pain, though it’s something to do that requires no effort. I’m not binging. But I am thinking about it.
I want to stay home. But really what I want is sharpness and clarity. I’m tired of the haze.