Depression can be a thing of beauty. A deep enough one allows you to finally see all the fucked up things about yourself that you couldn't possibly change with two lifetimes. I came to this realization two days ago, of my third year of depression. You would think that someone like me would have absolutely nothing to be depressed about, yet here I am once again slicing the scarred skin of my arm. As I watched the blood slowly swell to the surface, teasing my pain before freeing itself of its fleshy confines and trickling down onto my snow white sheets, I felt an eerie sensation of being watched made the short hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. But then again..who in the hell would even waste their time watching me?
"So what magic pill has the doctor prescribed for you this time?" My best friend, Dorah, asked. She's known me forever and still wants to hang around,go figure.
"Dorah I truly wish there was a magic pill for me. Personally, I think it is my lot in life to be this way."
"Myleaha must you be so dark so early this fine morning?" I can hear the exasperation taint her normally sweet voice.
"What exactly is so fine about this morning?" I ask, squinting my honey brown colored eyes making the dark circles of insomnia more evident.
"Well for starters, you're alive. Doesn't that count for anything?" She asked, braiding her auburn hair.
"Ever the optimistic." I sighed, brushing my ebony hair so that it formed my beloved curtain of death around my face.
"Whatever. You about ready to go?"
"Yeah, let's get this charade on the road."
The beauty of having an internet gig is that you earn money without ever truly dealing with the hassle of the public or the politics of the office. Plus working at home lets me enjoy the solitary comfort of home. Usually I work at home,but this one day in particular Dorah convinced me to venture out with her to this little cafe she occasionally frequents. It's a nice little hole in the wall, away from the hustle and bustle of the rat race. Basically my kind of place, I can blend in and fade into the background without anyone noticing me due to the jazz music and poetry. This one aspiring Shakespare actually said something that intelligent and kinda touched something in my dying soul.
"Dorah who was the last poet?" I asked between sips of some very potent coffee.
"Um, I don't know too much about him. I've only seen him once or twice. I think his name is Jayson,um,no, Jacob, no, Jerimyah, I'm not sure. He's over at that booth, why not go ask him."
"I guess." I mumbled, sipping my coffee, peeking over the rim at the pale poet who obviously seen worse than my pathetic eyes. I think I better go talk to him before the doubts begin to reverberate through my skull or Dorah decides to play matchmaker.
"Do you have a name?" Subtly was never my strong point. I mean, when you think life is a waste, who truly has time for subtly, get to the point, move on, and hurry this existence the hell up, that's my motto.
"Of course I have a name. The question being whether or not you want to know it." His voice seemed to float from his barely parted lips, yet every word was crystal clear.
"I wouldn't ask if I didn't."
"My name is Marcellis Jacob, and you?"
"Myleaha. Mind if I sit down?"
"Not at all, but I must warn you, I'm pretty much a loner and usually shy away from conversation, however I sense you need something from me."