Mood Surgery

It is an act of pure desperation, this hoarding of collapsed emotion, this clinging to things; opinions to which I am no longer entitled, patterned responses dumb to their origins and blind to their outcome. They can no more tell me than I can them. I am looking at the moon. Tell me, Mr. Moon, what is my place in all this? The moon is unfull and hovers there like a retarded, malformed blob. There is a strange electric wetness that clings to my skin like the cold sweat of a world waking from a terrible nightmare. The only great things I have done have been partial annihilations of other, preexisting things. Things in the other that I have loved. I kill myself to unkill you. But I have always been the kind of guy who takes things apart but can never put them back together. Somehow I can find no way to make this process work in reverse, so I plunge on with 700 pounds of mistakes slowly grinding my bones into the dirt.
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Picture a brain. The whole pan.

All those little intestinal lobes, all those gelatinous snakes intertwined. Don't fucking read this if you aren't getting this picture. A brain writhes, slides like slime up against itself an hundred times over and again. A pattern exists, but it is too intricate to understand. Too busy. Too sexual. This is the cortex of reason. See the ball of snakes, stuck in a globe, stuck in a union, jammed so critically together the movement alone sloughs skin and that is what we call brain damage. Intimacy is the slowest, purest decay.

I wish you could be one half of my snakes. This would be our sex. Our reason.
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I hadn't even considered that I might be sad until you asked. Somehow it was a shock.

I guess maybe I'm sad. How do I make it go away?

Is this what depression is? Have I just always been depressed?
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