Ever notice how stagnant water begins to stink?
Well guess what: that's you. When you're depressed; when you're unmotivated. When life sucks. When you can't get yourself moving for any reason whatsoever. You're stagnant. And you're getting RIPE, man.
When you're stagnant, you start to decay. If you sit on the couch too long without showering and... You know... Pooping and stuff, you start to stink. You gotta get the fuck up and do something about that.
And that stuff's obvious on the physical side, even in your most depressed states. You may be unmotivated to do anything whatsoever but sit in a dark room and become one with your despair, but at some point, the smell will drive you to get your ass into a bath. But did you know the same thing happens emotionally?
If you sit too long and allow yourself to steep in the stew of your pain and sadness, your insides will rot and you will begin to stink internally. The problem is, there's no foul odor to tip you off or motivate you to get up and do something about it. There's nothing a friend can comment on and say "dude, fix this shit" -- at least, nothing you're going to listen to.
It's much, much trickier when it's in your head and your heart. Cyclical thoughts cycle, as is their nature. "I'm just in a funk, and it hurts. Everything hurts. I hate life. There's no reason to get out of this funk. So why bother? I'm just in a funk..."
Work on something. ANYTHING.
Every second you feel yourself saying "Why bother" work another two seconds.
Stir that goddamn pond inside you.
Something magical will happen. You will begin to see the waters clear a bit. The rot will go away. You'll notice things begin to smell sweeter. Life will feel warmer and happier. Not to say all will be well... But at the very least, you'll have a distraction. And at the best, you'll have a new motivation and new love of something to do to get you motivated to start looking at things with the proper perspective again.
Trust me on this.
There are days when I feel very vulnerable. It's like my heart is outside of my body.
What comes to it in pain, hurts more.
What comes to it in hope, lifts more.
What comes to it in fear, scares more.
What comes to it in joy, elevates more.
I can't explain it better than that. And on these days, I do try to put on the armor I wear every other day; the one built from the iron of sarcasm and the teflon of experience. But it's futile. My body may be wearing that armor, but my heart's outside of my body -- so it's outside of the armor as well.
I try to protect it with my armor-covered hands and arms, and it works for the most superficial interactions. But anything more, and I'm feeling. A lot.
It's on these days that I try to write. The more I write, the more I understand. The more I can push out of the way. The more I can put on paper and into folders and out of view. The more room I can make inside me to put my heart back where it belongs.
The writing I produce during these times, I do not share. It's rarefied material; having very little use to anyone besides myself. It's too delicate. I can't put it on the shelf for fear it might be bumped. And I've been having these days a lot the past little while, and that's why you haven't been hearing from me much lately.
But it's this writing that forms the basis for the stuff I actually do publish later in life. I go back to it, visit it, dig through it for the bits I know I can make something useful out of, and go to town. So I trust that when things level out and I get the chance, I'll be hammering you with tons of material, all drawn from the lessons I've been learning the past 6-9 months.
I look very forward to it. I hope you do as well.