The depressed and anxious mind continually stumbles along lines of bipolar acquainting with other humans. . .
Some humans I can laugh with, and we’ve laughed together for years, but it’s unlikely I’ll invite them into my personal space—our home is in another place.
Some humans are furniture in my favorite spaces, but there is little eye contact or much gumption for starting conversation.
Some humans make my eyes sparkle when i see them, but those sparks rarely last in intensity. They’ll move on; I’ll shut down: but the memories are occasionally magical.
Some humans make happiness possible; these are what make up my lifeline, but my life mostly knows loss, in this category, and these humans deserve so much more than i have to offer.
The depressed and anxious heart wants to be a good friend. . . But this world, our spaces, I can’t comprehend.