Sometimes I get up in the morning with the sunshine on my face, and I look in the mirror and I sing and I dance, and appreciate the life in my reflection. I want to wear my vibrancy out loud and dress to impress when I get this rush, this need to be and do the most; to occupy every single space and minute with anything other than breathing, to conquer the world — whatever that may mean these days. I just want to do so much I feel the burn in my veins.
And then come the down days. My depressive episodes get the best of me. I sit in a quiet dark limbo wanting nothing to do with the world, thinking how much life sucks. And those days it doesn’t matter. Nothing really matters. What’s the point? The finish line seems unreachable, purposeless, I’m a soulless being with an ache so unbearable I’d rather be gone.
But truth is deep down I don’t want to go. Not without trying, at least. I crave constant happiness, completion, and perfection, forgetting it’s a fact of life that we can’t have it all. I can settle for something, I suppose, but happiness is priceless; it is the goal. I know the mopey person likes to come out when my trials fail, so I have to keep reminding that person that failure is not fatal at all.
I don’t want to go without trying. Even if, indeed, in the end nothing really matters, I still want to feel something to keep me on my feet. Something that keeps me looking forward to the sun, the moon, the spirited body dancing in the mirror, the life milestones. I want to feel it all. So I must keep trying if I don’t want to go.