There was, to a sea where no sun chooses to rise, a morbid fascination with life. With the hope, with the face that would be shown in the reflection upon the waves; this was where someone did look upon.
From his balcony, all he ever saw was reflections. Reflection of stars, of the moon, and of himself in a puddle that is upon another roof not so far beneath him. A witness to countless imperfections, a multitude of possibilities. All of them, as each could extinguish in an explosion, while all of them could be hazed into ripples from a sudden downpour. The stars, the moon could find themselves in a blaze, all so familiar to the human, yet still unexpected.
His face held everything mentioned. Imperfection. Possibility. And the haze. More than that, there was a downpour. His eyes are running with greater waves than ever the ocean before him could hurl forth. From a heart where more than a storm has been brewing, he had remembered. He recalled. He might have fallen from a swoon were he not leaning against a rail. He always required a handicap. The rails for his form. His hands for his eyes, where some of the droplets were caught.
Where does depression begin? It begins in the heart. Life began there, as only a mote of fulfillment. Something awoke, like an infant, to be the morning for the person who could stare at the sunrise in the reliving of purpose. A reminder for why one lives.
Where does such darkness end? Where it does not end is the morning. It ends in the heart. It ends where it began, while it remains for how long it lasts as a reminder. A reminder to the failure, the losses, and then comes the contemplation to join them, for they speak to the heart as being closest.
Could depression be given hope? It could, as it might be the case that this man could have turned around to see that the sun is rising. It is because it would have set before himself, as though he took in the view of his heart drowning in the ocean. A new light is all it takes, though no one will know what caused this man’s own to be extinguished. Oftentimes, we put all the firewood we could onto the blaze. We kept the light maintained. All it takes is a mere stumble to know whatever we loved was received this maintenance with imperfect hands. Hands that retain scars from previous lights, with burn marks from other hopes and other maintained blazes.
There was this morbid fascination with life. There was then this puddle beneath the man’s face; as once, it had not ever existed. Although, we might as well believe it grew there as a plant does, as it was cultivated into a lonely garden as a collection of tears being watered by tears.
A morbid fascination with life that now repeats in circles. What a cycle, and whatever outcome to the middling of a tale. For depression’s sake, this man could have taken his plunge from the balcony to that puddle, then to the ocean for his bathing. Did he cleanse, or did he? Clean, to be renewed. Clean, to be apart from pain, drowned in the same place as he might have seen his heart descend with the sun.
Thoughts. Clarity. Remorse, again. He wanders his mind over the subject of being lost in them, the thoughts that both fuel his anger and extinguish another type of fire being hope.
More mourning will awaken than the morning of a new day. More darkness, consistent with the depth of an ocean where light is not.
More memories that are more beautiful than the morbid fascination with life, recycled as trash to be another piece of trash.
Modern Romanticism 