Nature. I don’t love it like I claim to. How can I? I’m positively repulsed by it. The entirety of existence repulses me tonight.
You look in awe at a landscape say how ‘beautiful’ it is. What I see is misery, blood, death and guts. There is nothing ‘beautiful’ about it.
I truly believe I love nature sometimes, I’m usually high on those days. Not high on drugs, just high in myself somehow, that the rest of the time I cannot fathom how I got there.
Thats the thing with my world, depression doesn’t just change a persons perspective with thinking patterns, I swear to you it literally changes visual perception. It’s like you don’t just feel like you’re sitting in a black cloud, you are actually looking out of one. Depth of colour appears lost, the brightness of a hue appears dulled. When I feel my most depressed, it’s like street lights are dulled, the whites of paper when reading are duller. Everything is tedious.
Sunday nights are common depressive nights for me. It’s a learned trait that now is a biological hinderence to my well being. My Sundays have been stained by the absaloute mistyfiying sadness, that goes beyond the usual kids gripes about returning to school the next day. TV programmes that are tradition to be on, on a Sunday here in the U.K. Serve as a further push into this dark shroud. Songs Of praise sings their apparently hopeful tunes about and to their god. I don’t see hope, I see mass delusion and fake spirit. And then you have the dreaded now famous (in the U.K. At least) music to the beginning of the antiques roadshow. People come on with their antiques from long dead grandparents or great grandparents or a great, great, great aunt and a boring man or woman proceeds to droll on in detail about the ‘masterpecies’ along with the chatter in the background of the public.
How can a child who had a knot in his throat every Monday morning because I had to go to school, really grow up into an adult who can sustain himself through life and be able to ride the lows and highs of life like any other person? Most kids hate Monday mornings, but to be truly so despairing that a new week of school has begun isn’t normal. Or so I’m told. I remember having to hide my face from people as I walked to school in the mornings, so no one could see I was so unhappy with the situation I was actually welling up. I am no longer of school age, yet I still get this residual sadness on a Sunday.
They repeat a nature programme on Sunday tea time on BBC. You’d think given my supposed interests I’d enjoy it. But I don’t see the beauty in it, I see eternal suffering. It’s times like this where I find myself asking who the fuck I am.