I figure, I'd like to do an experiment, because on thought, I realize that I've never tried it before. Describing the many various flavors of emotions and feelings. Not in the sense of the why, or how. But in the sense of the feeling. To see if I can take what is inside me and turn it tangible, wihout explicitly directing it on anybody in an explanation or frustrated garble. I think, as I go along and experience expressely notable moments in emotional categories, I'll see if I can write them. For starters, I've written about the most predominant emotion of mine that I experience regularily. It's arguably the most common, and therefore relatively easy to describe. Depression [spoiler]It comes quietly, silent as thin air. When or how, it doesn't matter. It hides in the dark, waiting to pick up anything and use it as a weapon. Sometimes it suddenly seems as if it were always there, as if it never left in the first place, and that it had always been there, never having been defeated. Other times, I become aware of what's happening to me, as it slowly bleeds into me, at first, here or there, like ink blots splashed across a paper until finally, all that's left is black. When it shows itself in full, slithering out from dark corners as if it were a snake or a shadow, words fail me. Words to say what it is. Words to say why, and how. I want to talk. So much do I want to talk, to speak, to be heard, understood, comforted. But it coils and constricts, and I only grow withdrawn. I want to talk but I have nothing to say. I have no will left to fight it and so I endure it in silent agony. I feel it on my face. The frown that only goes further down, and the sadness in my eyes that's shown. I can't hide it. Those that love me see it. And they ask why. The answer is always the same. "I don't know." Try as they might, with their best efforts, their best tricks, and their years of experience, what they show me doesn't drive it away even if I accept their help, even if, I so desperately want to fight. As it grows, everything becomes weaponised. Everything turns against me and suddenly I find myself attacking myself from all sides. And down I slink, into a dark, quiet hole. Silence finds me and willpower fades. Drive dissappears and in its wake I see nothing. It's a feeling so pure that words well never properly do it justice. Weight rests not on me, but in me. I would say that my heart burns so much as it condenses and everything in me constricts, harder and harder, until all that's left, is singular, pure, sadness. Not for myself. Not for the world. Not for anything. It is pure and unrefined, undirected and unfocused. But it lives inside of me like some other creature, a cancer, like a strange personality. It is a part of me but it feels like a stranger, one who knows all of my dirtly little secrets, all of my weaknesses. On the days that I realize it's there, inside of me, playing tricks on my eyes and garbling my words into disjointed, embarassing shadows of themselves, I grow tired. I look at the black void, and I struggle. I falter in its wake as I fight it, trying desperately to justify to myself why it's wrong. Why I'm wrong, in seeing it like that. How I have every reason not to feel and to see the way that I currently do. All just more ammunition to be used against myself as I stare at a mirror that shows a reflection that I cannot stand. Time becomes irrelevant to me, and before I know it, an entire day has passed me by, one in a long line of them, where once again, I've done nothing. And I grow weary. I chase after the only solace I can find. Sleep. It is a sleep I go to willingly. And it is that sleep, which I silently hope, claims me in the night so that I may never have to wake again, so that I may be left in silent peace and quiet. But in the morning, I rise once more. To begrudginly greet that stranger inside of me who knows me all too well. I do not shake hands with it, nor do I give it a smile.[/spoiler]