I feel that sense of sorrow, that hazy pang of wistful appreciation of what once was which has now passed, never to be again.

The image of a trapped animal in a golden cage haunts me because it represents exactly the way I feel most of the time. The more I fight against the irons bars, the smaller the cage seems to get, hindering my every move until I can no longer do as much as breathe.

They say ‘go out more, meet more people’ and I ask them ‘where to and what people?’

They shake their heads and dismiss my questions as a sign of depression. They fail to see that I am no longer able to pretend that what I see before my eyes isn’t really what I see. My depression is not a case of a chemical imbalance in the brain, it is the product of that ability I have to see beyond the layers of illusions.

I need to remind myself that patience is the key, here. After all, waiting seems to have become a major factor in my daily existence.

Waiting. Waiting to live, waiting to die. Waiting to understand, waiting to grow.