you become the adage: form is emptiness, emptiness is form. You become the emptiness of form, but without spirit to fill it. You don’t know when your spirit was emptied out, nor who emptied it out. You don’t know if it was poured intentionally, or if life poked so many holes in your constitution that it leaked out over time, unbeknownst to you. All you know is that you are emptiness. Anonymous. What should bring joy does not, what should bring rage cannot. You mourn these losses with a quiet half-sadness— it’s as much as you can muster.

Depression is emptiness. Learned helplessness. As much as it robs your ability to feel, it robs your very voice.