Invisibility is a choice, but it’s not an easy one.

It is a heavy cloak; warm and comforting, though dark and worn. Once it’s been pulled on and clasped about the shoulders it’s difficult to slip it off and let it sink down into the floor, clouding your ankles and disappearing forever. For, once it’s taken off, it can never be put back on again. One admission; one second of bravery imprisons you in a permanent lack of protection from the judgement being cast by the outside world, and very few are comfortable with that alternative.

I started off the year I turned 20 on a somewhat hopeful note. I had learned to let go of my demons, but yet they still haunted me. My depression was better, but it was still there. In February of 2018 (two months before my 20th birthday) I hit an all-time low. I was becoming more and more sick, and had fallen to the point where I could no longer work out or do any of my normal exercise.
If in one unfortunate moment
You took everything that I own
Everything you've given from heaven above
And everything that I've ever known

When the days are cold
And the cards all fold
And the saints we see
Are all made of gold
The year that I turned 19 was the darkest year of my life. Not the hardest; the darkest. I was still reeling from my breakup the previous year, and I was stuck in a deep slough of murky depression. The fog was so thick that on most days I felt like I was suffocating. Drowning, even.
When your dreams all fail
And the ones we hail
Are the worst of all
And the blood’s run stale

I have been trying, like Little Women’s Jo March, to write about familiar things, so as practice I have taken a few moments of my life and written them down. I realize that they are mostly depressing moments from 2+ years ago, but I’m working on projecting emotions through writing, and these are the moments that I feel I captured well. So please, enjoy, and share your thoughts/critiques.

~

He thought it was the right answer
And so took his own life
His arm breathed an apology
For being dead inside

His friends take time to mourn for him
His family weeps with pain
Yet Alex our own broken loss
Should not have been your gain

The dominoes come crashing down
As air is filled with threats
Kids unstable, and razors sharp
Affect forgets regret

One death first, and then another
Your self inflicted loss
You curse your friend and your mother
Refuse to share your cross

I see a void over which colors loom

Waiting to embrace in the place of gray

Our children are lost inside of this gloom

While parents are kneeling to weep and pray



We hail them on with exuberant cheer

And muster courage, their hearts to carry

While standing by, they see their end is near

And they only live in hopes to bury



Once they’re gone we suddenly wonder why

With such deep dread they began every day

And looked up never into the bright sky

Wishing only to die and fall away



Normally, noise of any kind was unwelcome in the private library at Texas A&M, but somehow that same mellow voice was allowed to croon on by the hour.
It was also normal for Byron Fitch to be annoyed by even the slightest rustle of a page while he was studying, but today was different. The odd medley of sacred hymns and pop songs came across as ridiculously soothing when hummed by Kris Kemper's low voice.

In deep darkness; my quiet place
A sloggish rest, a somber face
Pursuing peace in darkest hour
Bitter at this life so sour
A breach of joy this time has been
A time of sorrow prone to sin
A time for me to stunt or grow
Sorrow I reap when tears I sow
A haze, a fog, a blinded spree
Misty unrest is all I see
I wallow in this filthy maize
I cry alone; sorrow for days
A finger reaches to my eye
Tears are wiped, my eyes are now dry
I thank my friend who's comfort prone

Now I ponder and wonder why
A man thinks best to take his life
Thinks to end his conscience' strife
His hopeless fingers grip the knife

There is no love to make him thrive
It hurts to breath; to be alive
He's lost his faith, he's lost his drive
It is not worth the pain to strive

It's become a matter of time
Because of this he starts the climb
From conscience to justify crime
But then he hears a quiet rhyme

The evening was the fourteenth of December. The year was 1873. It was bitterly cold outside, yet I sat comfortable inside, warmed by a fire, and content and happy. But I could have been outside, chilled by the frosty fingers of the wind, and been just as content and happy. How could anyone not be who was in my place? God had blessed me, immensely. I was not yet twenty-three years of age and I had more than I could ask for.