Depression is a formidable opponent. A brother, sister, mother, father. A blood born pestilence. An adversary dressed in the panicked shades of my rapacious shadow. I am afraid to emerge sickly from a meticulously laid bed. What if in striving I lose that which I now possess? What if I am corrupted by that which I cannot reconcile but must as an aspect of maturity endure? What if a machine? Will I grow resilient? Or will I harden? The world is cruel. I don’t want to strive at the expense of others. To strive and to never, even in moments of respite, love. Who will tell me how to live my life? There is no one and even if such a person existed I would refuse their words because no one can know truly what is in my heart. I must fail and fail often that I might learn. When there was nothing to lose I was a kamikaze now that heaven rests upon this very earth I am a coward through and through.