I wanted to write something that talks about how two years ago in the exact same month I wrote this letter about depression, and how the gloomy August weather may have a correlation with my depressive episodes. But I cannot bring myself to write at the moment. I cannot be myself at the moment. I am not myself at the moment. I’m back in the dark hole again. And I am not sure when I might return. Right now all I can think about are these lyrics from The Smiths:
There’s a club if you’d like to go
you could meet somebody who really loves you
so you go, and you stand on your own
and you leave on your own
and you go home, and you cry
and you want to die
When you say it’s gonna happen “now”
well, when exactly do you mean?
see I’ve already waited too long
and all my hope is gone
Good night. Good morning. Whatever. Everyday’s the same.