The Matchstick Lullaby

The depression has taken a severe toll on the little grasp of humanity I clutched closely... separating the halves further, deeper still, within itself. The few people that I could converse with on a regular basis or at a given social gathering, have become tainted... the flock flees towards the cliff's edge, as lemmings on a sacrificial run. Withdrawn... withdrawn is the word. What a fascinating illness... it takes our self-worth and spirals it downward, only to further cleave us away from the loose fibers of social construct. So this is the bottom... oh, no wait, this is. Even to someone such as myself, that prefers the solitude and quiet that suffocates me in the absence of heartbeats... I'm never lonely when I'm alone, only when someone is near me. Still, it creeps in... lurking, clawing, pulling every loose thread until the tapestry unfolds upon itself. The casual conversations have become increasingly more alien to the ears within my head... our head is within my head and when they speak, they're all dead. The vermin and interlopers have worn our spirit so thin, that I must flee within the deepest parts of myself... withdrawing further away, from the lecherous, cancerous fledglings that invade any peace I might obtain. Healing is slow going, when the puss is flowing... as we grow weary of their awed, stale crowing.