There are millions of suns left

The title refers to what I am apt to quote when I can think of little or nothing else, a reminder that not all hope is lost in some regard of my life. Lately I’ve felt depression returning, and I thought that some writing was in order to clear out the debris, like when Peter’s elderly mother gets divorced on Family Guy and bats fly out of her nether regions upon her freedom, vowing that must tell the story of their sexless captivity. I seem to have plenty of thoughtful conversations but rarely explore these ideas more deeply in print. If only writing were as effortless as conversation. While I am introverted, I am not so reserved that I feel the pressure to perform while speaking as I do writing. Thus the talking is frequent (and only to a few select confidants) while the writing is rare. Every few years I think that I should write more, then quickly I am suffocated by my expectations and abandon this hope, more depressed than before. Until recently, I had been well for several years, with only fleeting episodes of depression resolved through focusing on the present moment of small steps toward some tangible long-term goal, such as fitness or a better credit rating.

This strategy has had the positive effect of improving my health and easing my stress over finances, but this focus has been shallow to my mind. I am stalling in how much I can improve on concrete matters, and my neglect of deeper matters lowered my inner defenses against loss. Also, can I still see who I am and the value I have regardless of whether I succeed or fail? I am worried that my consciousness has become more shallow, but I see and feel hints that I can still dive into the depths, and not just the depths of depression.

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