Depression

Nearly everything is happy.
"Feeling blue?" I say,
"feeling down?" Which is funny,
because if all goes well,
blue skies will be back again.

And yesterday, I saw a baby--
not two months old--
with a pout protruding like a muzzle
and the look of a philosopher's puzzle
on his face. And that frown made me
laugh as much as any smile,
because I know how very fluid
are emotions.

Even misery is a little happy.
As the gilded anguisette glories
in every crimson streak,
yielding to the crisp palette of
Life,
so anguish is but the diagonal lines of
perspective, traced across our lives.

But depression is not happy.
Depression is neither hungry nor thirsty;
depression is neither bliss nor anguish.
Depression is life in all its throbbing
rhythm
but the camera lens never closes,
and instead existence is a nondescript
path against a canvas, leading nowhere.

Today I found out that depression
is not an emotion or feeling
but just a plain paperweight
with green felt on the bottom
to remind us how desperately unhappy
we are
and how giddily happy
we should be.

After all, nearly everything is happy.