an inescapable kind of pain that steals your yellow, that mutes your heart’s jingle, a sickness so contradictory, so rich with paradoxical bugs, its big, bigger than many things that naively you once thought could kill it. Tormented by the Tool, the mind, the only thing you thought you knew how to use to perfection. Haunted by the sudden realization you forgot how to hold it, how it worked, how it was supposed to be used. Like the story of a seasoned concert pianist that played every day for 30 years and one day, in the middle of a concert at the London Philharmonic, she forgot how to play, her tool betraying her, vanishing any evidence that she indeed once upon a time had perfect control over her fingers, her melody, her instrument. It is confusing to lose control over yourself, over what you thought was real and true, over the happiness you took for granted, over the appetite you once resented, over the energy you thought was too much, over those uncontrollable laugh attacks during inappropriate mornings, over your ability to play the keys to craft a beautiful melody— you cry all dawn because it’s suddenly all gone. It is easy to mistake the disappearance of joy, the tragedy of forgetting, as lunacy, as lack of perspective, as the perils of a spoiled child, as the misfortunes of someone in need of a reality check. But the truth of the definition of such odd misfortune happens to be hiding in the fact that it has no definition, like many things that are mighty and powerful, its strength lies in its indefinability. It is a feeling, a sickness, with no definition in its conception, or in its pattern, in its rituals or in its routines, in its causes or its consequences, it is as insoluble as can be. It comes and goes like a cliched vision of waves arriving and leaving for infinity, till the end of times, except, depression is as if such vision, such waves that you counted on coming and going till the end of times, erratically without any cosmic, geological or lunar explanation, decided to stop coming, the tide frozen paralyzed, the whole world awaiting, not knowing when the ocean will decide to work again. But the fear after the waves start moving again is even greater. You think maybe, this time, they will continue to come and go for infinity, but you can’t be sure, you cannot be relieved because you have an unignorable feeling they will probably halt again soon. It is like the fear after you experience a sharp, sudden, inexplicable pain in your stomach, unknowing its origin but most importantly, unknowing when or if it will happen again. This sharp unknowing is what makes a morning with depression painful— wherein lies why this paradoxical bug is so heartbreaking, why it is an endless gift of frustration. The only thing you have for certain is that you will never know; when you finally do feel better, when the waves start to slowly come back in and out, you can't be sure if or when they will decide to freeze again, leaving you perplexed, anchored, sad, incapable of enjoying the newness of your awakened happiness, your fist perpetually half-clenched among the dancing waves because you just don't know when they will stop moving again.