No question about it.
I am depressed.
I am so depressed, I couldn’t be arsed to do anything about it.
Maybe tomorrow I might feel better. Maybe tomorrow doing anything at all might feel easier, less effortful, less painful, less exhausting, more normal in the territory of cultural and political insanity that is infecting our lands. Maybe tomorrow might be a good day.
Family, friends and neighbours don’t actually ask old people about their mental health, their oncoming entropy and decay, and their approaching death do they? They don’t like talking about it, because there is nothing to say. And asking is too intrusive. If you mention your depression to your doctor you might get a session or two of CBT on the National Health Service . But who wants to talk it through with a therapist that looks about eighteen and knows fuck all about being old?
Thank god we are retired and old and invisible,
and I can feel depressed in peace
in the privacy of home!