Story from 130812

writing story depression

published 1970-01-01 00:00

updated 1970-01-01 00:00

%date 130812 00:00

When people ask me what I do, or what I want to do, I smile, politely and say, To do something is what I wish to do, but lately I've only been able to stare out the window. And as their eyes inevitably disconnect from mine, and they look intently at the floor, as though it held some sort of answer to the question of conversation, I threw in my punchline; Yes! Exactly like that. It's around that time, depending on who, or what, I'm talking to, that the crazy kicks in. I say kick like it's a jolt, but it's not. It's a slow wave that travels first through your fingertips, when they no longer want to follow, and then up your arms, locking them into their position against your face, until finally it washes over your head and is done with you. Incapacitating as this madness may be, it only seems to get worse. The inability to move that comes from wanting to do nothing, or the nervous tick that goes off every so often. The restlessness of the paralyzed is unlike anything the capable, hard working, average man will ever see the light of. It's not easy staring out the window.