He would ask, “What’s up?”
I’d reply, “Not much.”
He would laugh and joke, understandably uncomfortable with the slate of silence.
But I’ve shared before and these words go unheard:
It’s not “what’s up” it is “what’s down.”
It is a cremation of solitary confinement. It’s where life hurts. When breathing is an effort and the sun never rises in the fullest of day. Where each step is darkened and stuck. People are a blur and the sounds and sights vibrate two octaves lower than the earth. Everything cuts deeper and plucks the cellular structure of being. Tired is only a word. This feeling is the sand being pummeled by aching waves. And the window of soul have infinite tear stains.
Before I would answer, he’d reply, “It’s not so bad. Just look on the bright side.”
And I’d, blink through the fog. “Yes, of course. Why didn’t I think of that?”
In the creases of never there’s always a tomorrow. Alone can happen in a full room. Some can’t relate to the sound of death. Others have grown callouses around heart. And a handful have the penchant to see there’s variegated shades of bittersweet even in the dismal shadows. It is where I find answers that break and bleed blue. Therefore I write, separating the self-doubt from the noise of the norm. Knowing “what’s up also carries the weight of what’s down.” It gives me the golden pearls and slices of wisdom’s truths.
My words are inspired by an incredibly synchronistic post on depression by author and teacher, David Bedrick. Many deep thanks.
Photography: Peter Nijenhuis