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A Grey Cloud Called Depression

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He stands, silent, observing the oily darkness that flows with the essence of death. He hasn't checked the time, but it was a quarter to ten when he slammed the front door behind him, his thoughts and emotions erupting into actions. As he scraped the soles of his shoes on the sidewalk, it reminded him of his life over the past few months. He just wanted to get through life, and everyone and everything just seemed to want to provide as much friction as imaginable. Everything seemed to go wrong, and any joy that may have existed was now lost, and had been for quite some time. At first his discomfort at his situation turned to dislike. Then to hate. And now his emotions boil with the heat of abhorrence.

The man stands at the island in the kitchen, hands down, arms stiff, eyes closed. He suddenly grimaces, and a solitary tear rolls down his face and off his chin, its trail glistening in the glow of the single florescent light above, that casts such a lifeless glow on the room. The man's wife stands beside him, embracing him, her own tears soaking his shoulder.

It floats, and slithers, a swirling form of icy grey. It smiles with a smooth evil each time it extends into another heart. Its cloud-like being cloaks all nations. It revels in attacking the privileged, where it has a large expanse of joy to raze.
It locates an individual that seemingly has no worries or problems, and waits for an opportunity. It could be a mistake at work, or a callous remark at school, or maybe even just forgetting to complete a chore and being scolded. No matter what small issue it may be, the icy grey form always has a chance to enter. Soon, if that requirement is secured, the cloud has a full hold on its victim's emotions, sometimes driving them to virtual insanity, though neither they nor their family, friends, or counterparts are capable of realizing.

He stands at the railing of the bridge, silent, observing the oily darkness that flows with the essence of death. The grey cloud is so powerful in him that he finally grips the railing, and heaves himself onto it. All the troubles of his life rush through his head just fast enough to be overwhelming, and just slow enough to let him remember how painful each of them proved to be. He explodes into tears, and all he wants to do is release himself from the anguish, but he can't make his legs respond. They are one with the railing, and cannot be detached from it. Cannot be detached that is, until the hum of a taxi engine slows and headlights gleam in his peripheral vision, when suddenly arms grab him and pull him down. The man's arms embrace him, and the grey cloud flees in terror. Flees from a new force which comes into play. A tremendous, sunny liquid that captivates him, warming his whole being, and saving him.



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