I started writing about my recent depression and came up with the following:

In youth some cultivate melancholy: an emotional blanket to be wrapped around a tender shoot of a soul. The warmth of ones first taste of true sorrow is like a fine brandy, or better, an Irish whiskey (a personal favorite). But like other pleasures, melancholy loses its taste with time.

The adultish version of melancholy–for when it is full grown it is as different from its immature version as caterpillar to moth–falls upon its victim without regard for sentimental affections, unmoored from the sublime shore of weighty meaning. It is a ship without a port, listing to one side, it’s hovering bulk black in the night, blotting out the stars. A cargo ship, packed full of empty crates, each full of empty fear. How can something so empty have such mass?

Not wishing to discard it entirely, I include it here as introduction. What is worth writing about? Locked in that question, and faced with an overwhelming sense of dread, I have abstained from the blog for some time. I continue to peruse the usual suspects, but cannot will myself to comment.

But it is an election year. I don’t want to be left out of the commentariat entirely.

Thank you to BLCKGRD for checking in on me… Those things he does with the written word (as in actually written with a pen) are amazing.

Still hanging in there…