My name is depression
 Let me bring in this friend who is prodigiously skilled in creative
writing. His writings are not only flawless, but I would call it
heartbreakingly precise prose. Our communication was two-fold: face to
face and text messages. He usually keeps quiet face to face, though very
much conversational on text messages.
Whenever I raise most of our text-message subjects in our face to
face chats, he would just shy away.
“How come you write so well”, I asked him once in a text message. And
his response was of only one word: “Depression”. This, in fact,
flabbergasted me. I took some while to absorb that one word. But what of
it, I began contemplating. And then came another text from him.
“Depression is nothing to make a fuss about. Whenever I feel that, I
go to my inner home and be active. I start writing. Only that gives me
happiness. It is such a blissful experience - like giving birth to a
child. Depression is just like labour pains. You feel it, but then you
are more than happy with the baby. You forget labour pains.”
When somebody claims to have depression, I have heard, that’s called
imaginary depression. I shot the message to him keying what I feel about
his depression.
“Okay in that case what do you think an injured petal is?” He made me
speechless. I could not think of a proper rebuttal for that. I read on
his message.
“I know what you mean by injured petal. Only when the petal is
injured it sparks creativity. You admit that, but you don’t like to
apply that to my situation, depression.”
That long message had me over a barrel. I felt guilty wondering if I
have hurt him. I was thinking over and over again. But I was disturbed
by another text message.
“You think you are so intellectual. But you don’t know how two-faced
you are.”
Moments later I had a moment to myself to contemplate on my friend’s
situtation. Depression, I have come to know, is common in today’s world.
Many attempt to work on a way out of it. Many would go for drugs and
alcohol. And some would go for creative art work. Creative work, quite
fortunately, is like a chance sighting for them. Wait, I’m not comparing
creative writing with drugs and alcohol. No way for that.
Many great artistes, in my honest opinion, may have suffered from
depression. That may be why their works have become immortal. Although
we may not approve of depression at any cost, creative writing could be
a welcome bailout.
It is a little harsh to call it imaginary depression. But those who
cannot get cured, or claim that no cure is possible for them, have that
imaginary depression. Depression, though imaginary, works fine in these
people. That kindles and sharpens sensitive skills – creativity, in this
case. Isn’t that a wonderful thing to think of?
I flip through the books I love. Softly do I caress the paintings I
love. I remember some works of art I’m so fond of. Their memories do
creep along, when I’m alone. That’s when I think of the artistes more
than their work. How many of them have suffered? I remember another text
from my friend.
“All my creative works reflect depression. May be you don’t see that,
because you don’t know what it is like. All my works you have admired,
I’ve written when I was heavily depressed.”
Like my friend, many artistes have tried to let out depression that
way. But have us, the fans, understood that? Depression is a solitary
thing which never truly fits with sanity. Sometimes you may have to be
overbearing to feel that. Isn’t that the same thing Don McLean tried to
say on Vincent van Gough’s life – we all know it’s the famous lyrics of
Starry Starry Night:
Now I think I know what you tried to say to me,
How you suffered for your sanity,
How you tried to set them free.
They would not listen, they’re not listening still.
Perhaps they never will...
Whenever you come across a wonderful work of art, take a second to
contemplate on the artiste.
Their hearts are sore though their music is merry. The work will then
whisper unto yours ears: My name is depression.
[email protected]
|
