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On Deepavali and Clinical Depression

As someone with major depressive disorder, I absolutely loathe how it controls me day to day and sucks the life out of every possible action. As a Hindu, Deepavali, or our festival of lights, has always been a cause for celebration; it becomes hard to celebrate when that light dims and starts looming ahead you.

Image credit Kushwaha


on the third day of Deepavali,

Depression burned its fingertips with diyas,


I slept next to a moth, plucked my hair

to count in seconds, lit a fire to my palms,

tallied liters in blood, bled for parasites

breathed in

prayed for obscenity, prayed for innocence,

surrendered the plasma

mourning in my arteries

held my breath

begged for light, begged for sentiment,

shivered for my mind to gain sentience, solidifying

my sludge of tears until they turned to brick

hold breath

begged for sunlight, swore to steal my neighbor’s

own breed of Somber

hold breath, wither in meditation,

mediate whether I laid between

the incinerator or the morgue,

beg for shelter, beg for morning

waited until my forehead scrubbed the feet of piety

waited until my skin turned to stone


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