dormant

Sometimes I feel like I lose the ability to be an active participant in my own life. When depression starts to creep up again, I want to want to do things – write or record music, knit, paint – any of the things I do that involves actually creating something. But I just can’t. I sit next to my knitting on the couch, or in front of a song I was already in the middle of writing, and nothing happens. Like the part of my brain that does these things has been walled off – inaccessible, dormant, being slowly buried in snow. It’s not a violent thing; it’s a sort of quiet, gentle loss – the way the air pressure changes when you close a door on a cold day; the solid thunk of a deadbolt; the crinkly sound of dry leaves in the wind, still clinging to their branches, just before they let go.