I want to write about my depression, how I feel and what’s going through my head as I write. However it’s so hard to find the right words. –

You see, me writing about my depression is like an artist trying to describe his work. That’s me — Kim and the Great Art of Depression. The artist who feels his piece is a work comparable to the greats: the girl who knows her mind borders a thinly kept line of sanity.

Where can I begin to tell you about my great work? Perhaps, my inspiration? Sure why not — seems like a logical enough place to start. What was it that triggered me to create this piece? A splash of red, anger turned to anguish only to descend into a never-ending hole of angst. I compare the anger to the period of time where the artist moulds the inspiration into a solid idea; the anger is the simple sketch or tune of the piece.

What happens during the period of ferverent angst? A lot, actually –naturally the exclusion of everybody in my life, and the need to alienate everyone and everything that I know. It starts as a whisper, a tiny spot of black, an asynchronous chord that soons becomes a cacophony of pain residing nowhere else but my head. It then leaks to my eyes — or perhaps it’s my eyes that are leaky. Regardless, the result is the same. At some point, the tears won’t stop coming.

I want to tell you about my piece of work — all about why, how and what it all means… but I can’t. It’s something you must see yourself, experience yourself, live yourself. — Like how you can’t truly appreciate a play unless you’ve seen it. You’d have to have seen my inspiration, heard all the tormenting words in my head, and the crescendo of negativity to truly appreciate my piece.

The tears are just a shadow of an encore; a polaroid picture of the work that will never become clear.