If someone asked "What is depression like for you?"

It's like . . .

It's like  .   .   .

It's like sadness and cold and freezing and depressed

It's like all those cold, melancholic, depressed words that don't even exist

It's like . . . like a maelstrom that spins in every direction all at one time, blowing-pushing nothing but frosted freezing winds.

It's like a subarctic tempest of isolating-supersonic winds and shattered glass that rip and shred anything that tries to reach in, as well as the captive inside its eye.

At first it's feels as if that maelstrom is an external force so you feel nothing but sorrow and self pity and that other shit. Then slowly it feels like that tempest is coming out of you, that's when the loneliness starts to eat your psyche-   savagely.

Then as you're getting ripped apart, inside and out, in anguishing-torrential pain you yell and scream and plead and scream and shout and beg and whimper for help- pathetically

But nothing is there

Then you stomp and howl and tear into your own flesh and you beat your chest and roll-convulse on the ground and you jump and scream at the top of your lungs

But nothing answers . . . nothing hears you

Not even the demons

It's like that  .  .  .