Depression the sickness

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic

I had to write a paper for a class I was taking and we had to choose a feeling to and describe it and give details to fill it out and make somewhat of a small story about the feeling. I choose depressed. This is my first story on here and I apologize if it offends or disheartens someone. Please read at your own risk. Again, I repeat, this is my first story and I apologize for the quality.

 

There are problems in our world today. Not just corrupt politicians fighting for themselves, hiding behind sheet after sheet of lies. It is not just the starved and sick dying all over the world, the faint traces of their breath leaving their lips before any help can come to them, So many problems that cannot be fixed because of one.

 

I look around to gaze upon the sullen faces of every kind of people. As the years go buy their faces become ashen and sullen, sunken and missing from anything. They begin to feel nothing and see nothing, hear nothing. These people walk the earth as what seems to be the likeness of the dead, the smog of the earth clouding their faces and hearts and the axis of earth spinning them into oblivion of denial and self pity.  These people  have lost a part of them that talks the words they wished to speak, suppressed words gnawing at the flesh of their insides, making them hunch than to walk upright.

 

I see the disease spreading more quickly than anything, passing from mother to child and the deep pains of life infecting and crippling. For the people that still feel the sun upon their faces and smile with no trouble, the disease free, they are in the gravest of danger. They are a beacon of light to the ones who have nothing but the disappointment weighing heavy in their breast. The weight of their troubles bring the light down, their gnarled and rough, cracked hands of the lost reach for something to feel the warmth of it, smothering the disease free until they can no longer feel.

 

It’s how it spreads, no one man can handle the problems and woes of the people on their backs, the burden would surely snap them in two with no saviors and so they just bend, and lose their light. No one man can hold on when thousands more smother the light and assault him as to cram the worries and hate, All the fear and desperation of the sunken and dried monsters. The cracked lips call for help, but no one can hear over all the moans that plead for the help, so there is no choice but to drown with them and into them, and become them.

 

Since man can be a prideful species though, they must show the seeds they have mended to, the ones of grey that have sunken them. They case their personal hell into a box of problems in which they show to anyone who can listen still. They show off their personal hells as if it were gold, the desperation driving them into insanity and sharing it. Sometimes man will cover the treasure though, and torture himself with it until he is shriveled, weak and alone, still mourning and calling deep within to be saved and for someone to listen.

 

This is how it spreads and consumes the life of what used to be human, directing them from all other objects or life itself. Until they snap and a oak box is garnished with roses for the lost soul.


Submitted: April 14, 2012

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