I'm unlikely to leave behind great art that is remembered through the ages.
I won't make a breakthrough that will ease the suffering of multitudes.
I won't further our understanding of the world and our place in it.
I hope to be remembered, for the brief time I'm remembered at all, as a good man. One who did his best regardless of the situation, but even that isn't working out so well of late.

A bad day yesterday and now Melancholy has once again got me by the throat and her sister Melodrama is putting the boots to me.

This passes, it always does. But in the meantime I whirl around the vortex of my own navel. That tidal spiral that denies the outside world and threatens krakens and sea changes at it's core. Never mind that it's all in my head. Never mind that the world is as beautiful and bountiful and blessed as it ever was, I can't see it. Or more accurately: I can't feel it.

Outside looking in. Surrounded by meters of glass. Immersed in heavy water. Pick your metaphores, mix liberally and swallow it straight, no chaser. I've tried to explain what depression feels like to those who've never felt it. I've failed. Repeatedly. And in my better times I'm glad that those who don't get it, really don't get it. In times like these however I wish for the science fiction gizmo that allows others to feel what you're feeling. Just for the briefest of instances, so that I'm not left with the falibility of words to convey something so slippery and personal.

Ah fuck it. I'll get a good night's sleep tonight and tomorrow I'll delete this. If it isn't documented it never happened. Right?