Music and Depression

People wonder why so many in the U.S. are depressed. Phyciatrists are paid probably as much as lawyers. How can you be so sad in a country with such freedoms, whereas people in other countries work their asses off all day and are happy for what they have? Perhaps we just have so much time on our hands that simply having a good meal every day feels incomplete. We have so much spare time that we need something else to occupy our minds. Art; literature; music: the basics of relaxing entertainment. Ignore you're work, just get the job done. Finish so you can sit back and relax; read a book. Do anything to fill up your life; get from one moment to the next.

Music: the art of arranging sounds in time so as to produce a continuous, unified, and evocative composition, as through melody, harmony, rhythm, and timbre.

Have you ever noticed that the songs you like the most are those that you can relate to the most. Whether you can imagine yourself screaming the lyrics at someone you know, or simply that it holds certain propoganda that you agree with. Of course it's possible to like a song simply because it has a great guitar riff that you love, or a nice beat you can dance to, but what I'm talking about are the songs you can blast into every corner of your house when no one else is home, and sing the lyrics to. I'm talking about the kind of songs that you can get lost in, interpereting the lyrics to your own means, and feel real emotions to.

Emotions, trapped within you, coming to surface as you bellow your lungs for one more second as you close you eyes and imagine your fears; anger; or even sadness.

Have you ever noticed that the songs you connect to most are depressing cries in pain. It's because musicians are expressing their true feeling, and molding it into rhymes and phrases that can capture anyone who has felt the same. It's no different with art or literature. The Greeks don't have dozens of well-known epics where everyone got what they wanted. Shakespeare, probably the most famous and world known playwrites, didn't write happy little stories that ended with everyone feeling good about themselves. Tragedies, people using every last breathe to save the one they loved; or kill someone they hated. Stories that ended with death and sadness; these are the most entertaining and worth-while. Art, sculptures and paintings. Mostly, the art you'll see arond you is happy; cheerful. The painting of flowers on your wall; the seramic sculptures of animals, that's not what I'm talking about. I'm talking about the kind of art where you can look at it and know what the artist was feeling when he painted it. The most famous sculptures show true emotions. "The Thinker" statue; a man sitting down with his chin rested on his fist thinking, but what? Maybe he's thinking about the girl he's so in love with; the girl he can't have. Maybe he's thinking about every mistake he made, and how he can get her back.

It's this art that lets so many people truly feel every memory that hurt them.

So now I'm sitting here, bellowing my lungs to a song, thinking about everything. The images flowing through my head so vivid; every feeling so new and replenished; I'm lost in volume.

And Here We Are

Once again, thrown back to reality; the cycle is complete.

I now sit here, hands in my face, only stopping to type the these thoughts of... everything. Everything that I will never again experience; every reason why I won't; every possible option I have left, if you can even call it an option.

The empty hole in my heart seems to call for something, anything.

Drained and concentrated toward the stress of needing something I can't have. Starvation. I have one goal in life, and it seems more impossible than ever to achieve. I can't talk to someone about it, no one ever truly understands. If they did, they would do me the favor of killing me. But I almost feel a need to be told how idiotic it all is... again. I feel I need to be told that she's just not worth my time.

If I could only forget these memories, perhaps I could escape from this insanity. The insanity that tunnels my vision toward suicide; breaking my will for a mercy of death, the insanity seems to be rooted from love

Another Day Numb

I haven't felt like this in a long time.

Probably from the lack of denial, it's just too hard anymore. But, somehow I feel so... nothing. The reaccuring hollowness. I have forgotten nothing, yet I don't feel the pain of it's separation. I don't feel the torture of knowing I could have fixed it, but failing. I feel no depression, and yet no happiness, nor anger. My heart is so calm I can hardly feel it beating. I feel like my eyes have become clouded from reality, and not in a way to hide the truth, only mask it.

Eventually, however, I will be back to normal. Or, however normal that really is. I will wake up tomorrow with every vivid emotion tingling down to my finger-tips, and no matter how destructive, I prefer it.