Breathe in life; exhale with deliberate pauses--A collection of paper hear bits (beats maybe)

Have you seen a man with a face devoid of expression but filled with passion so much so that he weeps without tearing? Have you seen a man walking under the baking sun but shivers in the cold rain that drenches him deep inside his heart? It may seem ridiculous but i guess sometime somewhere along our lives we have felt his presence. Residing in us, affecting us. There was once someone told me that depression is an art. You can only lament in that state but never attempt to crawl out. At least till the feeling wears off a bit.

If depression was a lady, she would be a sex nymph haunting you down even in the gutters. Even if you try to escape her, somehow you will end up in her cradle of sins on your own. The first few rides downhill of morality will render a nonchalant and all-I-care-is-myself attitude. Subsequently, when the thrill dilutes into a slurry of boredom, you can only crave for abstinence.

And what if depression were a drink? It would be a flavour of novelty and addiction. Novelty cause it leaves you curiously thinking how long the kick stay this time round. Addiction cause it still lingers around your taste buds so that even when you wash down the flavour with your saliva, your sub-conscious memory yearns for more of that smooth and sweet-tasting fluid which once tickled your tongue with pleasure.

And for the poignant X-file fanatics and romantics, depression is an agent that infiltrates our defences to unravel our past. Pulling at the roots of our memories, summoning the demons and ghosts that still haunts us when we are asleep. Attempting to nail down depression only brings about more misery till we become numb and tired and our senses fail. Only then will depression become limp and drifts away; unable to affect us anymore.

Depression. Deep impression. De-passion.