Some nights sleep is elusive... some nights it doesn't come at all...and last night was one of those nights.
I found myself wondering if 'depression' is nothing more than the inability to pretend anymore... to pretend that any of this really matters much at all.
So many waking hours get spent behind the masks we make for ourselves to 'pass' as 'normal', or that we are given with the expectation we will wear them and say the right things, at the right times to let the game go on.
Maybe being depressed is actually a kind of spiritual exhaustion, a day, a night, a week, a month where we just can't summon up the wherewithal to make all this mean something anymore... or even pretend we do...
Humans seem to be meaning-making organisms. We make things up - gods, nations, money, even ourselves - and we depend on each other to ratify our individual faith that these things actually do exist, and that they have value, they are important.
But all these notions are as fragile as we are, and knowing this, we naturally prefer to spend our time with those who hold these 'truths' to be really real too.
But maybe alone, on a dark night, we know better. Maybe, we know worse.
Maybe we don't know a damn thing.
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