Some people, when they feel depressed, self-medicate - they savour the retail experience until their plastic expires in a cataclysmic display of spontaneous combustion. Me? It's the sound scenario - impulsive expeditions to the four corners of the auditory quadraverse. This latest excursion delivered up 'classic tracks'...Black Hole Sun - Soundgarden, Freak on a Leash - KoRn, Schism - Tool, and the crowning gory of gories, 21st Century Schizoid Man - King Crimson. "I am deliriously happy", she whispered inscrutably.
So, am I really depressed? Is that like sniffing and claiming to be suffereing from 'the flu', or voting every four years and representing myself as a political activist? There's obviously a yawning chasm between a diagnosis of clinical depression and merely 'feeling depressed'. Ok - the former invariably involves loss of all self-esteem, complete emotional detachment, debilitating indifference regarding appearace, health, motivation and behaviour - essentially an inability to function as a 'normal' human being. Hmm - sounds familiar, but then I function, and I detest the term 'clinical', so I guess I'll just grimace and bear it (and bare it) - wait for the inevitable manic episode to convince me that I'm actually a perfectly well-balanced sociopath with asymmetrical bipolar tendencies. Depression - no, way too bland (scary)...it's either an intricately contrived complex of multifarious personality disorders precariously poised on the brink of spectacular breakdown, or...what? I don't think about that stuff - it's too clinical. I shrink from shrinks, but produce regular contractions to negate the effects of an inexorably expanding world.
I am currently tearful, but alive.
I am listening to
Alive Alone - Exit Planet Dust - Chemical Brothers.