A Word About Depression and Music

I am living my live of everyone’s quiet desperation, and I glance over my shoulder. Ah, no one is noticing me here in their midst. I think I’ll indulge myself—for just a minute—in the unspeakable: looking into the abyss. I don’t know what yours looks like, but mine is better than Hawaii. It’s soft and either completely dark or a silver mist. It cradles, embraces, infuses, and pleasures me. I see myself doing this perfect swan dive into the mists and floating through silk. I run my tongue over my lips and there is a ginger sweet crust that bursts into flavor that somehow isn’t a taste at all but a sensation of speciality. I have a clarity of hearing that is more than sound. Like the first time I heard June Christy do vocal riffs on a Stan Kenton recording. The closest is Eva Cassidy.