What am I supposed to do?

It's the fear that what is welling up inside will never be taken care of. It will not disappear or subside. As large as the ocean, the tides rise and fall and calm and destroy. How could one give themselves enough credit to be like the sea? Who could truly identify with the depth and anger and beauty it is capable of? Sometimes, I feel it within me. Others, I am a desert surrounded by the waters, at the mercy of whatever god reigns over me sees fit. I am nothing or I am everything and from time to time...I just want to let the water out from within and slowly dry up light enough to fly like a bird. Sometimes I want to quit swimming and let the sea take me where it pleases, down, down, down, down...

And isn't it awful? Of course! An ocean is a pond to some and any kind of small, certain agony can only pave the way for the miraculous beauty our world is capable of.

It's as if there is a snake inside of me, coiled up. From time to time, it slithers and bares its fangs, poisoning my mind with thick clouds and quick sand until I go in so many circles what I say means nothing. The worn, empty melodrama plays out in my mind like some kind of puppet show that ends with the applause of dreamless sleep.

I feel as tiny as a sparrow in a thunderstorm and the fear sets in of getting blown away, down, down, down, down.

(I created a website for my writing about a year ago. Here I am, back to the beginning. Sometimes it seems I'm always back to the beginning, chasing circles in my mind. I think my therapist calls it "anxiety". Anyways, I was always taught to write about something relatable so let's start with depression. I found this sheet of paper folded up beneath my bed. I guess you could call it poetry, or an essay on feeling sorry for oneself.)