“Writing about one’s own depression is difficult. Depression is partly constituted by a sneering ‘inner’ voice which accuses you of self-indulgence – you aren’t depressed, you’re just feeling sorry for yourself, pull yourself together – and this voice is liable to be triggered by going public about the condition.” —Mark Fisher, Good For Nothing

4pm.
The afternoon sun casted long shadows in my peripheral. There’s no need for the specter to show its face, we’ve already known each other for a long time, we’ve been more than acquainted.

6pm.
My fingers have fused to the plastic keyboard, moving in unison with the machine. The clack clack clack of bone against keys has permeated for hours, for years, but it can never drown out the longing whispers. It’s gibberish but I understand what it’s saying. It’s telling me to do something.

11pm.
A mess of pills has been swimming at the pit of my stomach. My eyes glazed over. As I slowly drifted away into the dark, I felt a soft tug on my covers, pulling it off me. Cold fingers traced its way from my leg up to my catatonic torso. Then, a sudden jolt. A weight pressed against me, perched on my chest as its toenails dug at my skin. I just shut my eyes harder as I let it watch over me, its hot breath on my face.

2am.
Staring out the window, exhaling smoke out to the empty sky, I watched as the remaining stars die and plummet into the Earth until there was none left. A flicked cigarette sailed to the air, sparks flew and then extinguished when it hits the concrete. We’re plunged into permadark.

5am.
Convulsions. Mouth foaming. Eyes rolling back. Lungs filling with water. Inaudible screams. A silent resolve.

12nn.
Time and hauntings are two things that are both temporal and spectral. The ghosts of our lives will always be there, as a manifestation and as a physical force. It will never go away and will forever haunt. We just do it all over again until we no longer could, and even then, specters remain.