How do you fight depression? At 2 AM, when the world is drunk on sleep- the most addictive yet pacifying drug of them all- I ask myself this question. The kid sleeping next to me doesn't have a worry in this world. He has an innately mundane routine, yet the most rewarding one that one can have. He has silly jokes to kid himself on, no real purpose to pursue, and most importantly, a day monotonous yet busy enough to reward him a proper night's sleep. He isn't depressed, but I am. Maybe I'll have to be mundane and monotonous enough to be fine.
The boys from my grad school are as carefree as ever. The world doesn't seem to have bothered them much. Chivalry and machismo surround them like moths surround lights. They just seem to have a magnetic connection. Smiles plastered along their faces resemble a childish grin on the reception of a toy. They're still young boys of five years back and not grown men of responsibilities- rough and rustic- sporting bright shades and even brighter eyes. They aren't depressed, but I am. Maybe, I just have to be a little old school tomboy to be fine.
The girl I loved doesn't matter much now. The years I wasted don't either, notwithstanding the knowledge of the prime that I missed. She's as indifferent as ever, busy making her own merry ways, making more acquaintances than friends. That's how she does it, I think- not carrying any burden at all; people coming in as fellow passengers with the luxury of leaving as and when desired; feelings too few to hurt, too restricted to matter, too selfish to give away. She isn't depressed, but I am. Maybe, I'll have to be a little selfish to be fine.
My parents are content- not necessarily happy, but content. Happy within their means would be the correct phrase- no fancy wishes, no extravagant spending, yet never short of anything. Mother doesn't remember a sorrow for too long, neither does she remember a smile. Errands, be it small or big, make up her day, home being a surreal respite, the kitchen- a hell within. For father, it is all about priorities- striking the proper balance, like a master administrator, between need and greed. Routine for him is as pious as God himself, and work makes the best nexus. They are cliched, just the way the world wants them to be. Maybe, I'll have to be cliched to be fine.
So, how do I fight depression? I become the world to do it. I become the tomboy who doesn't give a fuck, or a sixteen-year-old not really knowing how to give a fuck? I become a selfish girl, too selfish to be felt for, or the age old cliche of live and let live? By being any, or all of these, I become the world- the world that doesn't care, the world that doesn't ask these questions, the world that right now is too drunk on the life-altering drug, and that would spin mercilessly again to have some more of the same. Who's the depressed one now?
Photo courtesy- berlin-artparasites
