Falling in and out of depressive episodes is like slipping down a muddy slope. You know it’s happening, so you try to gain a foothold, grasping at blades of grass in a misguided attempt to pull yourself up. Instead you break an ankle and tear half the foliage down with you, ending up in a muddy puddle at the bottom of fucked creek. It’s cold and you can’t get up, and then a cow shits on your face. So you slither around in the mud half-heartedly calling for help, even though you get the distinct feeling that there’s no one around to save you, until eventually the clouds buckle under their own pressure and you finally get a chance to wipe the gunk from your eyes and enjoy the view of the valley from up here. That’s when you realise you’re not at the bottom of a ditch but on a terrace farm, only it’s badly planned and you have only half a meter between you and another bad break-up.
Maybe today you crawl 500 meters before you meet the farmer, who helps you get to town on his donkey, Kong. Maybe you rest a while in the rain. Maybe you lose your footing and end up a slope or two down. Maybe you take in the landscape and decide to swan dive as you watch it burn. I don’t know how this story ends. It’s raining and there’s cowshit everywhere.