That which we call Depression and label a mere illness is far more than that.
Depression is the gaping pit at the black heart of our galaxy. And even from this vast distance, some can feel its cosmic drag on them towards endless, inexplicable oblivion.
Yet, even in the face of total annihilation, whether by chance or godlike machination, the very fact that we exist and can stand against the darkness in a brazen show of defiance is important.
We can create: art, life, dinner. Things that are are no less beautiful than unseen rainbows, the glittering light of long-dead stars, a taste, a smell, a breath. Similarly, these things are no less futile.
Importantly, however, futility does not negate beauty.
In fact: the case may be that it is the unlikely coupling of those two concepts that gives possibility to love, hope, happiness and the desire to rise each day to see the sun, which–even in all its radioactive glory, must face the same existential conundrum as us.
Whether or not the sun knows that we exist, we rely on it for sustenance. So too are we bound up in this cosmic causal web with ourselves at the centre. It is inevitable, there is no other valid point of view.
We are not separate from the universe: we’re part of it. We’re integral.
You are integral.