Depression is a stern taskmistress.
She stands over her peon, whip held high.
One lash falls:
You will never be good enough.
There is no way out.
A third lash:
No room for hope.
Yet another lash:
Things will never change.
Again and again the strap falls, worn and bloodstained while echoes reverberate in an empty skull, over and over and over and over.
Eyes to the dust, eyes forever to the burning dust. Is it not pointless to raise one's weary head?
No. For when the Sun appears and says "Enough", the Shadow is burned away in sweet Light.
Dust thins and becomes shimmering beauty.
A worn, strong hand appears.
Firm. Reaching. Kind.
Unsteadiness grasps Strength, embracing--
It is hope. It is enough.
This is peace.