Out of empty and monotonous days, out of solitude, out of scornful words directed at us, gloominess grow up in us like fungus: you wake up and it is there, you know not how & it endlessly dedicate its time to gaze upon you, ugly and morose.
The tragic side of the human life ,with all its feelings of having been tantalized by a slithering dullard to whom you formerly offered a pen so he wrote you a lampoon, its sponge-like heart that absorbs all the real and imaginary malevolence & its recurring violent thoughts compelling you to re-read "the miseries of the world" written by you, succeeds in making some people have a continuous waged world war going on in their inners & no wonder that their anxieties shatter all sleep upon other people's eyelids.Once the tide gets started it gains a powerful magnetic effect on the train of associations. I do regard it a real victory- yet a small one- that the person could engage it in a constructive way- by whatever means that I'm still unaware of- rather than wading immediately into an angry confront.
Drifting in a sea of depressive moods swaddled by conclusions, indicated rather than established, & ideas smothered at birth , days get a great deal of scars and scratches & the mind wonders: "is this life or something else?"