A Selfie of the Artist as a Starved Man

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I’m not generally one to talk or to write about my own life directly. However, these past months have been some of the most personally trying that I can recall.

Depression is a wasting illness, and it’s one I’ve been battling on and off for my entire adult life. This recent bout has reduced my body by about twenty pounds and my energy to nil. My creativity has suffered, and my usual passions have dulled.

I’ve been trying to write, posting on this blog and not allowing my prose to become too dark, but I find that it’s becoming incredibly difficult to maintain the façade. No one reads my blog, I am quite aware. It is what it is.

If, by some miracle, compassionate individuals do, in fact, exist and find themselves here, a single word would stretch for a mile. I’m not asking for praise or sympathy, by any means. I don’t want that. But, it would feel nice to be recognized as a human being who exists. Though many may choose not to acknowledge me, I am still living, and I still suffer. Choosing to avoid me does not make my existence or my situation any less real.

I do exist. I’m here, like everyone else.

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