The weight of thought

 

Depression is a quilt stitched from shadows,

a sweet, heavy blanket pressed to my chest.

Its threads hum low like a lullaby,

soft but suffocating,

coaxing me into the stillness

where motion feels like betrayal.

The air grows thick,

not hostile but hushed,

like the muffled quiet of snowfall—

everything slowed, subdued,

cradled in the hush of an eternal winter night.

I ache for that cocoon,

for the compression of my own sorrow

holding me like gravity,

pulling me inward,

until the world outside

becomes nothing more than a dim lantern

behind frost-streaked glass.

There is comfort in the collapse—

in sinking under the tide of thought,

in pressing my cheek to the cold pillow

and whispering to myself:

stay here, stay still,

stay wrapped in the dark warmth of sadness.

It is not fire,

not rage,

but the eternal lethargy of shadow,

the quiet wish to vanish

into the folds of my own mourning,

a soul folded small

inside the heavy blanket of its own silence.